


Dangerous

by Elizabeth_Herondale



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Netflix's Daredevil, The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Bekah gets tossed in a dumpster at some point, Bekah has the ability to be very angrily nice as well, Billy being a jerkface, F/M, Frank being angrily nice, Frankie-boy gets kinda OOC once in a bit, I apologize for it, I think that's it - Freeform, Mainly Frank/Rebekah, Many - Freeform, Pets, SO, Slow Burn, The Punisher, alright that should be it, and pretty jerkface, but a jerkface nonetheless, i think, like a lot, mainly just Frankie tho, much violence, not much Punishing, please forgive anything you read in this, probably..., some Billy/Rebekah, some murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-02-10 09:14:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12908871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Herondale/pseuds/Elizabeth_Herondale
Summary: Both Frank and Rebekah are broken people. There's no doubt about that.Rebekah Hall is a law investigator who loves to sleep around to hide the fact she's in almost constant pain, but she's not as good at hiding all her secrets as she let's herself thinkFrank Castle is a professional vigilante who cleans up the streets of Hell's Kitchen on his mission to ease his own pain. He's better at hiding secrets than Rebekah isHis love for dogs makes his life a helluvalot more interesting one day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NightTerror shipping is Frank/Bekah  
> PhantomPanther is Billy/Bekah  
> [[not that it'll come up anywhere but I just LOVE thse ship names]]
> 
> Anyhoe, some things get kind of intense at points, but nothing legit explicit -- just a lot of heavy innuendos and a bunch'a swearing throughout this entire series
> 
> Thank you for reading. I apologize in advance for anything and everything
> 
> Enjoy
> 
> Xx

_Goddamn phone…_

We were in the middle of something and there it goes, ringing and vibrating, skittering around on my wooden nightstand, bound and determined to ruin what little bliss I was having this morning. 

I rolled off Billy, allowing him to gingerly pluck my phone up, “Password?” 

My response was an irritated gurgle as I fluffed my pillow under my head, keeping my back facing him, “Ignore it.” 

The ringing continued, and Billy pressed the phone into the blankets to stifle the noise, “Password? The faster you tell me the faster we can continue with-” 

“The password is Billy09,” I grumbled, and when I _felt_ the man start smirking, I kicked back my leg, hitting his hip, “I had a kitten named Billy a while back, you jackass. Not named for you.” 

“ _Sure_ ,” he dragged out the word and picked up the phone, “Who’s this?” 

He sounded defensive, causing me to flip back over and face him, mouthing ‘ _who is it?_ ’ at him. I knew Billy had read the caller ID. The only response I got, though, was him stretching out and wrapping his free hand around my shoulders. I allowed this at the moment and let him drag me into his side, “I do believe I asked you first.” 

_Such sass._ I draped my left arm over Billy’s waist, right above where the blankets rested as I nuzzled myself into his side. He was nice and warm, and smelled like cedar and wintertime -- and sex, but that’s my fault; _whoops._ I sighed contently, listening to the soft murmur of whoever was on the other side of the phone. 

“Billy Russo,” Billy’s voice was smooth and smug, and I grinned when he began drawing small shapes into my bare shoulder. 

_Triangle._

_Circle._

_Square._

_Heart._

I was beginning to drift off to sleep -- I was rather tired -- but then I seemed to have been dragged into the phone conversation, “Yeah… yeah, I’d say she’s _around_.” 

I could feel him staring at me. 

“Please hold,” Billy stretched away from me, setting my phone down somewhere -- really, I’d rather him toss it against the wall -- before returning to nudge at me, “Bekah, babe, guy on the other end of the line really wants to talk to you.” 

_Babe._ I both love and hate when he uses that word with me. 

I grumbled wordlessly again, dragging the blankets with as I shifted back to my original position of _back-towards-Billy-so-I-can-ignore-him_ , “Tell’m ‘t f’ck off…” 

The bed shifted under moving weight, and my edge dipped down a considerable amount. One of Billy’s arms was in front of me, and his hair was falling forward, again, ticking my cheek. I peeked open an eye and couldn’t help the giggle that came out when I met Billy’s deep, dark brown gaze, “This ‘Matt’ character seemed pretty determined to speak with you.” 

I grunted, a noise akin to an angry moose, reaching out my left arm while I moved, yet again, this time burying my face in the pillows as an attempt to suffocate myself, “Gimme.” 

Billy gave my back a gentle pat and fell backwards, out of my sight. His sarcastic receptionist tone made me snicker, again, though, lightening up my mood, “Thank you for holding. Miss Hall will speak with you now.” 

The phone was set in my hand and I propped it up against the pillow, hitting the speakerphone button, “What, Matt?” 

“Oh, well, _hello_ to you, too,” he muttered, “Are you currently in need of employment?” 

I huffed, propping myself on my elbows, “I was in the _middle_ of something. Your interruption doesn’t warrant a proper hello. And yes, to a certain extent, I suppose I am. _Why?_ ” 

Billy snorted when I told Matt off. But I mean, honestly, it’s only… I checked the time on my phone; _9:06_. It’s only nine in the morning and he’s calling to interrupt my… _personal time_? We haven’t even talked in, like, months. I thought he lost my number, for God’s sake. 

“‘cause I’m offering you employment,” I could hear the irritation dripping from every word, and it gave me immense satisfaction. 

I glanced back at Billy, since I could feel him just… _watching_ me. He was probably studying my tattoos and scars, again -- he was. To snap him from his thoughts, I reached a hand back, ruffling his hair forward so it fell in his eyes. It was nice and long on the top, buzzed on the side, but he _always_ had it slicked back and honestly, I’ve made it my life’s mission to unruffle it as often as I can. 

I broke into an impish grin when he made a disapproving face at me, and I answered Matt without breaking eye contact from Billy, “Yeah… I s’pose I’ll stop by. Where at?” 

Seriously, I could just study Billy all damn day. Sharp jawline peppered by scruff, jet black hair and eyes to match. He was tall and gangly, too, towering over everyone he ever neared. 

“222 King Street,” Matt’s voice was clipped, “Second floor.” 

I rolled back over onto my back again, hungrily eyeing up Billy, “‘aight, I’ll be there in a while,” I trailed off when Billy moved over me, his knees bracketing mine, arms braced on either side of my head, “I, uh… I have something to finish, first.” 

Billy reached over and ended the call. I raised my eyebrows at him, “He didn’t get to say goodbye.” 

“He’ll see you in a while,” Billy’s hair was still flopping into his eyes. His eyes, which have somehow gotten a shade darker, “Right now, you’re _mine._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn more about the extent of Bekah and Billy's relationship

_I hate this._

I really shouldn’t hate the situation but I do. You have no, _no_ idea how much I do. Billy in entirety just made me _hurt_. Emotionally and physically, both good and bad pain. I let out a self-pity snort and hesitated a glance over at him. 

There he was, my blankets only half covering him, his hips taunting me the most out of everything he was flaunting. One arm was folded under the pillows, behind his head, the other arm resting on his stomach. 

I’d messed his hair up. Again. By _God_ I’d messed his hair up so much… I grinned to myself, biting into my lip in an attempt to suppress it. He must’ve noticed, because he turned to look at me. His lips were still bruised, his white teeth shining even brighter than usual against the red colouring when he broke into a grin looking at me, “Staring is impolite.” 

_Goddammit I hate you._ All I did was roll my eyes and sit up, bringing the blankets with me to cover myself, “I… do believe I’m late. Well… late- _er_ ,” the clock melting off the dresser across the room said it was already ten, and I brought a hand up to my hair to brush it back from my eyes a little; I winced when my fingers hit tangles. It was going to be _noon_ by the time I got to Matt and Foggy’s, since I still needed a shower and still needed to get Billy _freaking_ Russo out of my damn bed. 

Or, well… I’d very much like him to stay, but… 

Billy sat up, propping himself up on one elbow so he could face me, and God _damn_ the blankets were slipping-- “Should probably go, then. Don’t want you to be even later- _er_ than you already are.” 

I was just staring at my lap, now, hanging my head. _There he goes, making me hurt some more._ I swung my legs off the edge of the bed, grabbing a shirt from the floor at my feet. Strategically, I slipped it on and then let the blankets fall, adjusting the shirt as they did as to not flash him at all. With a saddening huff, I realized I’d grabbed Billy’s shirt instead of my own. 

Well… at least it covers everything important. 

I stood up, tugging at the hem of the plain black t-shirt with one hand as I motioned limply at Billy with the other. _God I hate how he looks in my bed_ , “I am… going in the shower,” I cut him off before he could offer, “ _No_ , I… I’d rather you… not… join me.” 

Any other occasion, yes, I would’ve _loved_ that. But I wasn’t quite in the mood anymore, now that my sex high was wearing off and my brain was returning to what little shred of normalcy it had left. 

Billy Russo was not mine. 

Billy Russo would never _be_ mine. 

Billy Russo was supposed to start as a frequent fling and _stay_ a frequent fling. 

Nothing more. 

Nothing less. 

_I should’ve known I’d screw up the ‘no feelings attached’ thing sooner or later._

“Something wrong?” 

I snapped my head up from staring at me feet, “Hmm?” 

Billy was sitting totally upright, now, the blankets bunching at his waist. He was watching me with a concerned expression, “I asked if something was wrong. You seem… off.” 

“Yeah, I just need to… shower,” I started backing towards the bathroom, keeping my eyes on Billy as I continued to tug down the hem of his shirt, “Be right back.” 

I stepped inside and all but slammed the door shut, pressing my back against it; I needed to shower, so I set to it as smoothly as I possibly could. 

No matter how hard I scrubbed, the bruises Billy left on my hips, on my legs.. Neck… stomach… you get the gist. They were _still there_ and they made me want to burst into tears. Granted, I _was_ tearing up a little bit, gritting my teeth to prevent actual falling tears. Though, I was in the shower, no one would notice. 

As I was washing the conditioner from my hair and trying to dull the ache that was setting in, the door creaked open and I screeched a little. Billy laughed, “It’s just me!” 

_That doesn’t make it any better_ , “What’d’y’need?” 

“Well, as much as I enjoy seeing you wearing my clothing,” he paused for a second, “I am going to need my t-shirt back.” 

“Go ahead and take it back, my dude,” I was now finished with my -- rather quick -- shower, and turned the water off, blindly sticking a hand out of the shower curtain to find a towel, “Now get out.” 

Billy was nice enough to place a clean towel in my outstretched hand, and even through the shower curtain, I could tell he wanted to ask something, “Nothing I haven’t seen, Bekah.” 

_That just makes me hurt even more_ , “I know, I know…” I scrubbed it through my hair before I wrapped myself in the towel, and then I slid the curtain back, stepping out, “But still.” 

Billy was half dressed, at least, having his pants on. But that was it; his shirt was in his hand and his feet still bare. His hair was even still a mess, and I liked that I was one of the few that could see him so disheveled. And he was still so damn _tall_. He almost had to physically bend his head to look at me. 

He stepped closer, dropping his shirt to rest his hands on my hips, again. I could feel his fingertips lining up perfectly with the bruises there. Like a puzzle. And I wanted to rip apart the false picture it was putting together, “Would you like me to go grab your clothes for you?” 

“Clean stuff, preferably, but yes, please,” I batted my eyelashes for emphasis, though I knew he’d go regardless. 

“Got it,” Billy flashed a quick smile, gave one last fleeting squeeze to my hips, and then went back out into my bedroom. 

While he was gone, I continued drying myself off, vaguely thinking of what he was going to return with. He had good fashion sense, and there wasn’t anything in my room I’d never wear, so I wasn’t worried about that. I was more worried about the half of my outfit that, uh… wouldn’t be seen to the public. 

And I was right. He returned moments later with my usual boots and a pair of black thigh high socks, black skinny jeans and a black _Panic! At The Disco_ shirt for me -- I guess he remembered that I like me my dark colours. 

However, there was something that was a stark contrast to my black-on-black-on-black outfit. It wasn’t all too noticeable, but as it was the first thing I had to get on, yeah, I noticed it right away. He’d given me my black push up bra with the baby pink lace trim on the top of the cups, complete with a matching bow in the middle. My panties weren’t _as_ bad, just straight black with pink bows at the hips, but _still_. 

I sighed heavily and shook my head. 

Five minutes later, I was dressed, with hair and teeth brushed, lookin’ all fine as hell as I leaned dramatically in the doorway, stretching an arm up the doorframe. Billy was stretched out on my bed, reading one of my many books -- today it was _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , again -- and seeming totally oblivious to me standing here. But then I cleared my throat and he looked up, grinning like a fox, “Ready to go?” 

I gave him an incredulous look, raising my eyebrows, “Oh? Oh, really, you’re playing the innocent card, are you?” 

His eyes followed me as I went and grabbed a jacket off the bedpost, “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Wipe that cheeky grin off your smug face, pretty boy,” I sassed with a snort, “Surprised you didn’t give me any garters to go with.” 

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he closed my book and tossed it on the bed next to him, “otherwise I would’ve. I think you look nice in that set.” 

I sighed heavily, “‘ve only seen me in it twice.” 

He was still looking so severely smug, and I hated it, “Still don’t know why you bought this for me.” 

“I could, that’s why,” he swung his noodle legs out of bed and stood up, “I saw it and just thought of you.” 

“‘f course you did,” I patted my pockets, looking around, “Where’s my-” my hand shot up and caught the phone that was headed straight for me. I stuck it back in my pocket, “Thank y’kindly,” I wasn’t going to tell him to get out of my apartment. He’s been here often enough that he knows the drill; keep the animals inside, lock the door after he leaves, don’t steal anything and don’t break anything, and _especially_ do not freaking harm any of my pets, “You know the drill. I gotta head out, so Imma just…” I trailed off, leaving him alone in my home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm new to this whole "chapter" thing on this website so please forgive any mixups with the stuff
> 
> Thank you for reading
> 
> P.S: Billy Russo has a Thing for Thigh Highs and lace #confirmed


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rebekah's been living in a false sense of security for far too long

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about a month, now, in lapsed time

Publilius Syrus once said, ‘ _the pain of the mind is worse than the pain of the body_ ’ and he was so, _so_ very right. Body pain goes away, the breaks heal and the bruises fade over time. But the pain of the mind… that stays with you for _years_ on end. 

Just look at me. 

We’d rendezvoused at Billy’s apartment, tonight, not being able to make it back to mine, and as much as I tried, I couldn’t stop the nagging at the back of my mind. This… this _lie_ that I’ve allowed myself to fall into for the past year and a half was _actually_ starting to get to me and I couldn’t quite figure out why. 

I was sitting upright, my feet on the floor on this side of the bed as I shuffled to get dressed, sliding my thigh-highs on, then my pants. Until something dripped onto my bare thighs, I didn’t even realize I’d been crying in the first place. I huffed and stood to tug my pants up the rest of the way; _maybe_ if I hurried, I could quietly slip out of here before Billy got out of the shower. 

Though, much to my dismay, he came back out as I was sliding on my shirt, pulling the bottom down over my stomach. I didn’t _feel_ like looking at him, so I continued staring out the window at the nighttime city. It looked like glitter scattered over a black blanket, shot through with white, winding ribbons. 

And, sadly enough, I could feel Billy staring at me, and when I spared a fleeting glance at his reflection in the window, he looked severely concerned -- and, well, severely handsome. His hair was wet, so it wasn’t slicked back, instead parting in the middle, some falling in his eyes again. Shirtless, yes, with loose sweatpants on. 

_Loose_. 

I looked back at the city, and felt him step up behind me, “Hey…” he sounded hesitant, “Hun?” 

I flinched when his hands ghosted over my waist; I couldn’t _help_ it. He shouldn’t _want_ to touch me outside of bed, shouldn’t feel _obligated_ to act anything but professional and detached around me, otherwise. 

I made the mistake of turning around to face him, and had to take a small step backwards away from him. Almost involuntary, it seemed, he reached up to cup my face, to hold me still and make me look him in the eye, “Have you been crying?” 

I reached a hand up to swipe at my eyes and forced a smile, “Nope,” a breathy laugh left my lips and I tried to shake free from his hands, though to no avail; one hand was gently holding my head, still. 

Sadly, I allowed it, and leaned into his touch with a small sigh, “What’s wrong?” 

I peeked open my eyes, “Nothing is wrong,” I always prided myself as a good liar. I did it frequently enough. 

Billy’s eyebrows furrowed, “You’re lying. Tell me what’s wrong, I _know_ something’s been goin’ on in that pretty lil’ head of yours for a while now.” 

Apparently my lying needed work, to build up against Billy’s dark, all-knowing eyes. 

I sighed, again. He did have really pretty eyes… they were reflecting the city lights, now, and I couldn’t help but stare. He always did have an uncanny knack for seeing right through me. 

The hand that wasn’t cupping the back of my head tapped on my shoulder a little, “Come back to me, hun.” 

I blinked, clearing my vision so I could stare over his shoulder at the wall behind him. How did one bring up the topic of feelings in a situation like this? I can’t just come out and say, ‘Hey, about two months after we started this whole thing I kind’ve caught some feelings and couldn’t tell you.’ 

Then again, it was _my_ fault for thinking I could stick with something like this, the same ‘one-night stand’ partner on repeat, over and over and over again. No feelings, just sex, whenever one needed it, wanted it. We were pliable, always in the mood, always available. We worked all too well. 

And, really, it was my fault for letting it continue on. I should’ve stopped the entire endeavor as soon as I broke the rule, but instead, I let it happen, let it continue, _allowed_ myself to live in a lie. A part of my brain wanted to believe that Billy cared just a fraction more for me than he was originally supposed to. The way he spoke, sometimes, felt the need to hold me -- as he was doing now, Goddammit…. Especially how Billy always seemed to be ‘thinking of me’ when walking past a lingerie shop. 

Though, we both knew that was for his benefit more than mine. 

Billy had stopped down, now, looking me directly in the eye, still looking concerned, “Rebekah? Did you hear me?” 

I flashed a quick, small smile his way, sniffling slightly, “Uh, no, sorry. What’d you say?” 

He’d stood back up, now, but his gaze never faltered from mine, “I think we should take a break.” 

_Bingo._

You hear that? That’s my heart seizing up a bit, a fist squeezing it just a _little_ too tight, making it a _little_ too heavy. I let out a pathetic little squeak, “Oh… okay…” 

Swiftly, I slid from his hold, headed towards the door to grab my jacket off the floor. If I keep my head down, he can’t see me cry. 

Though he could hear my sniffling, I’m sure. 

If I’d’ve just broken it off last year, I could have saved myself at least a little heartbreak, “Bekah-” 

I lifted my head, still not looking at him, “Hmm? No hard feelings. You want a break, totally fine, Russo. We’re in no form of commitment with each other, other than sex, remember? Nothing more, nothing less,” I wrapped a hand in the hem of my shirt and took it to wipe furiously at my eyes, though I was somehow managing to keep my voice steady, “Talk to you later.” 

He, however, followed me out of the bedroom as I followed his trail of clothing back to his front door, “Bekah-” 

I let out a dry laugh, “Billy, I get it, you don’t need to justify yourself.” 

He’s just sick of me. 

I’ve been being weird outside the bed, lately. 

He’s catching on. 

“Talk to you later,” I repeated, casting a quick glance back at him as I stepped into the hall, shutting the door behind me. 

That was a bad idea. 

He looked as broken as I felt. 

_Why_ , I will never know. He didn’t want to sleep with someone, anymore, who wanted more than just sex. I understood completely. It didn’t ease my pain, ease my laboured breathing, or stop the sobs, but I understood and would -- hopefully, anyway -- be at peace with his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp Billy's a jerkface


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah's puppy gains her a new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the amount of hits this book has gotten since I posted it last night is quite terrifying to me, though I love it and I thank y'all for reading this

Well, Bucky’s leash got away from me again. 

Meaning, y’know… _Bucky_ got away from me again. 

He always comes back, though, so I kept at my leisurely pace, shoving my hands into my pants pockets, smiling to myself about my general disposition; I was abnormally relaxed today. I had my sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder because it was that stupid _too-warm-in-a-jacket-too-cold-in-a-hoodie_ time of year, so I opted for half-and-half; and then said sweatshirt decided to finish sliding it’s way down my arm. I stopped sludging my way down the sidewalk, pausing in the middle of a small throng of people, “Son of a dick.” 

It was the beginning of April. The gray snow was melting into black slush -- hence my sludging -- and now my yellow sweatshirt was more than half soaked in whatever unknown substance was in the “snow” on the sidewalk. With a sigh, I pulled the sleeve off my bare arm and tied the dripping thing around my waist before I continued on my way. 

The breeze picked up, fanning my hair back, and I squinted into it, still smiling to myself. It was a little cool, and I could hear my fellow Manhattaner's groaning as they tightened their scarfs and pulled down their stocking caps. I shook my head; it’s _April_. Honestly, the snow is melting; man up, guys. 

Yes, I’ll admit, it was a bit nippy, but the sting kind of grows on you like the taste of black coffee grows on you. Either that or you become numb to the point of no feeling at all. Whichever comes first. 

Once in a while I saw a paw print in the slush, sometimes marred by human shoe prints and shuffle-trails, but nonetheless I was able to follow Bucky’s initial path in the general direction of my apartment building. 

A car drove past, spraying more melting snow towards the sidewalk I was walking on. Several people (myself included) leaped out of the way in a flurry of curses. That gave me the reminder to look up from my soaking wet boots so I could properly find my missing four-month old. 

I kind of stopped, though, when I _did_ find him. His leash was in the hand of a man who was kneeling on the sidewalk to be eye-level with Bucky. The man, apparently, didn’t care that his pants were now soaked with God-knows-what; all he seemed to care about was ruffling up Bucky’s floppy ears. 

With a small shake of my head, I continued walking the last sixty or so feet to where the two were, and I squatted down, eventually losing my balance and kneeling on one knee -- granted, with a cringe, “Uh, hi.” 

He had a dark baseball cap on (it matched his dark jacket) and the bill of the hat had been hiding his face before he looked up at me. He had bruises scattered over his face, mainly on his left cheekbone, and his nose looked like it had been broken many, _many_ times. There were seemingly permanent knuckle marks under his eyes, too, more towards his nose. They went with the one fading black eye and the other darkening black eye. 

Nonetheless, though, he smiled. A crooked smile, only one corner of his mouth being pulled up, “Hi.” 

Okay, I’m going to come right out and say it. Even with the beaten up face, this boy was _handsome_. He wasn’t conventionally handsome, persay, either; there was just something about his dark eyes and strong jaw line that had me intrigued about him, his story, where he got the marks from. And that lopsided smirk. _Grr_. So far, he had everything that I enjoyed. 

I quickly gathered my wits and motioned vaguely towards the puppy, who’s leash was now wrapped around the stranger’s feet, “Um…” 

He gave a start, “Oh, uh,” he stood up, and I followed suit, backing up a step, “This one yours?” 

“Sadly, yes,” I sighed in mock disappointment, “He likes to trip me and then go running.” 

“He’s cute,” the man acknowledged, watching the Rottweiler pup chew on his pant leg, “How old is he?” 

“Four months,” I sheepishly kicked at the ground. 

He made a noise, and unwrapped the leash from his hand -- I then saw that both hand’s knuckles were red with fresh cuts, “Y’know, I don’t think I really wanna give ‘im back.” 

“Feel free to stop by ‘nytime…” I trailed off as I stood, hoping he’d fill in his name. I was beginning to like this stranger. 

“Frank,” thankfully, he got the hint. 

“Frank,” I continued, “’m almos’ always home durin’ the day an’ I live… actually in this building,” I motioned to the brick building to my right, “Apartment Twenty-Two E.” 

He smiled -- God _damn_ that lopsided smile -- and shook his head, looking away for a brief moment, “‘s this lil’ guy’s name?” 

Speaking of which, I bent and scooped Buck into my arms, attempting to unravel the leash from Frank’s ankles, “Bucky.” 

Frank helped untangle himself, “You mean you named him after that psychopathic, one-armed, amnesiac uptown?” his voice was so deep, but still so casual-sounding about the way he described The Winter Soldier… 

It made me want to give him a new bruise on his face. 

Instead, I grit my teeth and stepped closer to him. He stood over me by two inches at least, and was still twice the size of me in muscle-mass. He smelled like gunpowder and overall wintertime, “You leave James Barnes _alone_. Nothing he ever did as the Winter Soldier was _his fault_.” 

Frank backed up a half step, holding up his hands in mock-surrender; I could tell he wasn’t scared one bit, “Sorry, ma’am.” 

I snorted at him, “You should be,” the whole incident was already past me. Hoisting Bucky under my arm a little better, I began past Frank and up the stairs to my building, “Nice meetin’ ya,” I chirped over my shoulder. 

“Hey, wait a minute, y’little spitfire,” he caught my attention with that nickname, so I turned around to look towards him, but he was already _right behind me_. So, I basically bumped into him, “‘s your name?” 

“Rebekah Hall,” I suppose it _had_ slipped my mind to introduce myself. I never really had to do it anymore, since I hadn’t met a new person in so many years, “My one friend jus’ calls me Bekah, or Bek. He’s lazy like that.” 

Frank just snorted, shaking his head, again, as he turned to go back down the steps, but thought better of it and turned back around, reaching straight for Bucky. However, he pulled his hands back, shaking his head, “I got somewhere to be.” 

“Then go,” I gently waved him off with my free hand, struggling to contain the wriggling brick of puppy with my other; apparently Bucky liked his new friend and didn’t want to see him leave, “Don’t want you to be late for your important shit. You know where I am, just barge in whenever y’want.” 

He made a very distinctive noise as he walked back down the stairs. It was a noise that clearly said, ‘ _not gonna happen_.’ He waved over his shoulder without turning back, one singular, real quick motion of his hand, “See ya ‘round, kid.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah gets tossed in a dumpster

Three weeks. It’s been _three weeks_ since I met that wonderful stranger on the sidewalk. 

Not that I was keeping track or anything. 

I mean, I had enough to bother myself with, anyway, so he hardly ever crossed my mind. With the two jobs I had goin’ on -- well, my night job was relatively new, finally finding someone to work for, and all. 

_Ugh_. Let me explain further. 

So, I had the day job of walking the dogs -- I got another baby Rottweiler hehe -- hangin’ with the cats and looking for an _actual day job_. Well, I mean, I _had_ an actual day job, but seriously, I can’t work with the two avocados that I went to college with, I just can’t. We get nothing done, since they just opened, what, like… three months ago? Aside from that, my hours are so lax-- _anway_ … My night job was roaming the streets kicking various criminals’ asses into next Thursday -- sometimes as hired help. Since I was recently hired to kill a man, it had become a nice routine; go out, try to find Gallagher, kill the men I was interrogating. Go home, shower, eat, drink, nap, walk the dogs, feed the cats, possibly go to work. 

So, yeah; I really didn’t have any mental space left for pining after a man I’d never see again. 

I had the distinct feeling that today, my routine was going to get interrupted. How did I know? Well, after three weeks of whittling down his protection detail to about three guys, I’d _finally_ gotten to kill off Ricky Gallagher. Some guys -- the ones really low on his food chain -- had sworn off crime, tucked tail and ran. 

I’d get them later. 

Others, his more… _loyal_ followers, had decided to hunt me down, make me pay for what I did. Sadly to say, they succeeded. 

And so I ask again; how did I know my routine was going to be interrupted? 

Right now I was haphazardly tossed in a dumpster on the Lower West Side, couple’a blocks from the docks. I had… several… gunshot wounds, one of which was on my right leg, right around my knee, and if I remember correctly it had gone straight through my _freaking leg_. At least three of my ribs were cracked, or injured in some way, at least. My head got a few good cracks against the pavement. And a wall… and a few good punches… so I wasn’t exactly the poster-child for coherence at the moment. 

The bastards tossed me over the side of this dumpster in a back alleyway and walked away cackling. Ergo, I’d bleed out and die like the piece of trash I actually am, surrounded by my brethren. 

I giggled at that analogy, feeling blood bubble up my throat and into my mouth at the action, blood dripping past my grinning lips. Spent all my life thinking I’m a piece of trash, and here I end up. 

I didn’t even have enough strength to situate my left leg better. Right now my foot was up on the rim of the dumpster, half dangling outside. I wiggled my toes, just to see if I still could, and my boot ended up falling off. I heard it hit with a sad, muffled _thump_ on the pavement below. 

And then several more. Meaning footsteps. Heavy, thudding footsteps. Getting nearer. _Great_. Just what I need. Some random man finding me and either attempting to take advantage of me in my 0.3-seconds-from-dying state, or to call the paramedics. 

However, I recognized the man who poked his head over the top of my dumpster. At least, I _think_ I recognized him. My vision was darkening horribly around the edges, and the dim streetlight filtering in from the road was really unfocused and blurry. 

I tried to tell Frank -- or, well, who I was pretty sure was Frank -- to go away, just leave me here in case those people came back. I couldn’t rope an innocent man into this life. All that left my mouth were groans, though, muffled by my blood clotting in my throat. 

What the hell was he doing out here, anyway? It’s the middle of the Goddamn night. I’d have asked, but I still couldn’t speak, and he was also reaching for me. 

And suddenly my world flipped in a blur of soft light, and I was situated crossways in his arms, my fallen boot resting gently on my stomach by my right hand. _When did that get there?_ My left arm… I couldn’t feel it, and my head was laid so far back all I could see was a building’s wall and -- _oh look!_ Some of my skull-blood splattered on the wall from my earlier fight! 

I think. 

I think… 

I think I’ll just… just close my eyes… 

“No y’don’t,” the arm holding my upper half jostled a considerable amount, making my eyes open back up, “Stay awake.” 

I could only groan at him, again, trying to make him put me back down. And… And I was so… _tired_ , that I couldn’t really even bring myself to care if my bandana was still over my mouth or not. 

To prevent myself from falling asleep and getting jostled once more, I kept my unfocused gaze aimed at his face. Or, in the general direction. He had more bruises, new cuts. The two most prominent being on his temple and on his fat lip, both dripping blood down his face, and down his neck where it fell onto his jacket. His jacket… still smelled of gunpowder and wintertime, though there was the more tangy scent of fresh blood there, too, now. 

I let my head fall back, feeling blood drip down towards my ears from the corners of my mouth. We were inside a building, now, moving steadily up the stairs. 

“Awake.” I was gently jostled again as he adjusted his grip on me. 

He was really, _really_ blurry, the flickering fluorescent lights overhead creating a blinding outline that had me squinting even more than I should’ve been. 

I was kind of startled when he shouldered open a door, the dull, cracked paint of the stairwell being switched out for a tan colour scheme as I was being gently maneuvered through a doorway. 

Literally all I could see was the ceiling. It was an off white-grey colour. If I wanted to move my head to look somewhere else, I couldn’t, since I was losing all feeling below the head. _God_ , I hope nothing hit anything major, like, my spine or something. Wouldn’t that be just _divine?_

Frank stooped and flopped me on a couch, awkwardly scooching some pillows behind my head. It was actually quite nice, compared to the trash I was just in. And then he left, out of my line of sight. His footsteps were considerably lighter than before -- either that or my hearing was gone more than before. 

I closed my eyes, thinking he’d just let me rest, now, but _nope_. His footsteps returned with a sharp, “Up.” demanded at me. It was a gentle demand, but still had scary authority to it, so I slowly pried my eyes back open. 

Frank knelt down on the floor beside my couch. He came back without his jacket, but with a small bin of various objects in one hand and a scissors in the other. I stopped paying attention to him by then, since an unbelievable cold had set into literally every muscle, bone and fiber in my body. 

Or, well, maybe it had been slowly seeping in the entire time, and I just happened to notice now because I didn’t want to think about my pain, or my stiffness, or how _tired_ I was… or Frank. Just, Frank in general. Even splattered in blood, he was still ever-so-handsome. Just like I remember. 

I tried to swallow, re-moisten my throat back up -- even with the blood, it was still _really_ dry -- so I could tell Frank to just _let me be_. He was getting roped into some bad shit and he was _such. a nice. dude!_ However, my swallowing did nothing to try to help my talking ability; in all honestly, I’d probably been shot in a lung and only had minutes to live. 

‘least if I died, Frank would be safe. 

I felt a strong breeze drift across my stomach, now, though. Wasn’t helping my initial coldness at all, and I shivered. Frank muttered something that _sounded_ like an apology, and I just continued staring at the spinning ceiling, trying to focus on keeping my breathing even. 

It was when I felt something thin, long, cold and metal start digging into my side that I started wriggling. Maybe I was yelling? I couldn’t really _feel_ anything anymore, so if it hurt I didn’t know, but the feeling was still intrusive and I didn’t like it. 

But the feeling was gone in an instant, quick as a wink, and I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. I turned my head to the side just in time to watch Frank drop something small, metal and… bloody… into a clear, glass jar. 

The jar looked like a mason jar, and was half filled up with others bloodied bullets -- yes, my mind had _finally_ wrapped around the concept that Frank had dug a bullet out of my side. 

_Fun_ , right? And, y’know, I’d been so caught up in studying the jar of used bullets, that it hadn’t registered Frank had taken his scissors and cut right up the centre of the front of my shirt until I felt the cool air and it was too late. 

I grit my teeth, scrunching my eyes shut when the tweezers -- I didn’t exactly know what else would be long, thin and metal -- dug into my shoulder, this time. My jaw was clenched so hard I was surprised my teeth hadn’t cracked yet -- but I would _not_ yell this time -- and when I attempted to move, his free hand began pressing down on my lower abdomen. It was really warm, which was quite a nice contrast. 

It was as invasive as the tweezers, but nice. 

As time went on, I became colder, chilled to the bone, and so I grew pretty numb to the bullet-removing. By the third bullet I do believe I was close to passing out, and all I remember is seeing needle and thread for a brief second before finally allowing the darkness to win. 

_Maybe he’ll let me take a nap, now…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't the main point of the chapter, but she did indeed get tossed in a dumpster whoOps
> 
> And if I remember correctly she was shot a total of 4 times [we'll see in the next chapter, I s'pose :p ]


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We delve a little deeper into Rebekah's life whether she wants us to or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, well, she's a bit inconsiderate of most'a the bandages she's got on, but in her defense she was full'a dried blood and dried sweat and smelled like trash so she had to take the bandages off in order to shower
> 
> buT ANYwaY--

My eyes fluttered open, my heart hammering faster and faster as the ceiling I didn’t recognize came into focus. Slowly, I began sitting up, my hands slowly curling into fists as I looked around the very bare room. _Where the hell am I?_ I jumped when I saw Frank, leaning against the opposite wall with a can of soup in his hand. 

_Oh, right._

He was studying his soup can, scraping around inside with a fork, so he didn’t seem to notice I was awake. My chest was _throbbing_. Like, entirely. Pain was seeping into every part of my body, some spots more than others -- right leg and upper body, mainly. Three blankets had been tossed over me sometime during the night and frankly, it was quite cozy 

I was about to toss the blankets off and stand up, when Frank interrupted me, “Don’t.” 

“Look, I gotta go,” I was in _no_ position to try to explain the predicament he found me in last night. I had to get out and I had to get out _now_. 

He set his soup can on the counter to his right and moved closer to my couch, sitting himself on the wooden coffee table opposite of me, “Look, you’ve been shot. I’ve been there before and it hurts like hell. Just rest up.” 

Him? Shot? By, like, a _gun_? A _real_ gun? He’s too… what the heck?! _It’s too early for thinking…_ I sighed, still planning on leaving. Me being here for this long already painted a hefty target on the poor man’s back, “I need to go.” 

“Go where?” 

“Uhh… my _house_?” apparently my sarcasm was still intact, “I’ve got shit to do there.” 

“No. You ain’t goin’ anywhere.” 

“What’d’y’mean I _ain’t_ goin’ anywhere?” I raised an eyebrow, “I’ve shit ‘t do at my house.” 

“So I’ve heard,” he crossed his arms, “Still ain’t movin’ from that couch ‘till you’re well enough to move. What’s so important you think you gotta do it right now, anyway?” 

_God_ , he’s starting to sound like an overprotective parent, “ _Well_ ,” with great pain I sat up a little further, the blankets falling off my chest to bunch at my waist, “I have two dogs and fifteen cats to care for, half-dead plants to water, gotta make sure none of them fools that jumped me last night are lounging about drinkin’ all my beer. Y’know, the works. We good? Can I leave now?” _leave and never come back? Probably flee Hell’s Kitchen forever?_

I saw his angry resolve fall a little. But he still snorted, pushing himself to his feet, “No. Stay put.” 

“Stay- _Stay put_?” my voice was incredulous, “I will not _stay put_ , I don’t take orders from people, _especially_ someone I just met!” 

“ _Stay. Put_ ,” he annunciated it with so much authority it made me think twice about taking orders from him, “Or you’ll probably end up hurtin’ yourself even more.” 

He was by the door, now, grabbing his jacket off the counter by his soup can. I noticed there wasn’t any blood on it, anymore. But his face was still cut and more bruises had formed, “I’m going to go.” 

At least his lip wasn’t swollen up anymore, “Where?” let’s see how he likes someone being nosey about his business. 

“To your apartment,” Frank had the door open, and was in the hall, now, “Stay put.” 

And the door was shut before I could argue back. 

But as soon as the door clicked shut, I _made_ myself move. I tossed the blankets over the back of the couch, immediately shuddering at the contrast of air. Apparently, _Frankie_ had taken it upon himself to attack my outfit with a scissors and various ripping, too. The shirt I’d had on was cut right up the center, acting more like a vest than anything. At least he left my sports bra intact, though it was splattered with blood. The strap was falling down off my right shoulder. 

I silently thanked myself for wearing the padded blue and green one; it was all ripped to hell on the inside, anyway. 

I had _so_ many bruises over my chest and abdomen, it was quite hard to find an unbruised patch of skin -- untouched, however, no. I had so many tattoos I was running out of room to put them all. 

There were small, square bandages taped over spots on my left side and right shoulder, as well as near my left hip bone and almost right dead-centre above my belly button, and despite the stitches I felt, the bandages were still turning red. 

I unceremoniously ripped the bandages off, tossing them on the coffee table. 

My leggings… well, the left leg was still almost completely intact. However, the right leg of them had been ripped, all the way up to mid-thigh. My right knee was heavily and tightly wrapped with a hefty amount of bright white gauze. It looked like at least a roll and a half, but yet the majority of it was a dark, deep red. 

And the more I stared at it, the more it began to hurt, so I looked away, examining where I was and where he’d put my weapons. My black skull bandana and the ripped pieces of my leggings and shirt were all on the coffee table by the half-filled mason jar of bloody bullets and a pair of silver -- and red -- tweezers. And his scissors and gauze. And tape. 

So basically a used first-aid kit was scattered along with my outfit. 

At least the bandana was still intact. Bloodied, but intact. That was what covered my mouth and nose, concealing my identity along with the black camo-cream I smudge around my eyes when I remember to put it on. Which is never. 

So forget about that part. My bandana had the bottom half of a skull on it and that’s what went over my mouth and nose. 

My custom-made, clear 9mm pistol -- I named her Delilah -- was nowhere in sight, and _no_ , that’s not just because she’s clear. She’s still got two bullets _that you can see_ in the clip, and really, only her bottom half is see-through; the rest’a her is black-- _the point is_ she’s missing, and I paid an arm and a leg for her! 

This discovery prompted me to swing my legs off the side of the couch. I let out a long, high pitched whine, but I still did it. The floor was hardwood, matching the tan walls pretty nicely. There was weaponry strewn _everywhere_ , and most of it wasn’t mine; aside from Delilah, I’d only been carrying one other pistol and three knives. 

I ran a hand through my grimy, blood-caked hair with a cringe and a shudder, then dropped my hand back to the couch beside me. Using the coffee table and couch as leverage, I forced myself to my feet, and soon found out that I couldn’t put any weight on my right leg. 

_Great._

Keeping my hand on the couch, I hopped over to where his small corner kitchen was, seeking out some Saran Wrap to wrap my leg up. My weapons had been placed on the counter, there, so at least I knew where they were. After rifling through some drawers, I found some and wrapped it all around my knee bandages before tightly tying it off. Then, I hobbled over to his fridge and swung it open, finding it _completely_ empty. 

So much for that. 

I let the door fall shut again, just giving up on food all together. I figured if I ate it, I just see it again a couple minutes later and I’m in no state to make it to a trash can or the bathroom quickly if I decide to upchuck. 

There was a mattress on the floor a couple feet behind the couch, complete with two pillows. I’m assuming the blankets that were tossed over me were originally supposed to be on the bed. And on the other side of the mattress there was a door that I could see was clearly the bathroom, so I started making my way over there, using the wall as my right leg. 

It took a really long time for me to get over there. 

Who the hell _was_ this dude, anyway? Taking leisurely strolls through back-alleys in the middle of the night, getting the shit beaten outta him -- by the looks of it, constantly -- and lives by himself in a tiny apartment. Has a shitload of weaponry laying around, and looks to me like he’s living so he can up and get the hell outta dodge on a _really_ short notice. 

He was living like _I_ should’ve been living; precariously. 

I shook my head, finally having made it to the bathroom. It was as simple as the rest of the apartment; shower on the left, toilet and counter on the right. The walls were white, sink, tub and toilet a light blue. 

Without another thought, I stripped of what was left of my clothing -- being extra wary about my knee bandages -- and stepped into the shower, ever so slowly reaching my arm up to slide the curtain shut. The rest of my wounds were just stitched up -- not bandaged anymore, since I’d taken the bandages off; stupid move _that_ was... -- so I’d just have to watch for getting soap in them. Otherwise, whatever neighbours Frank had would hear me screaming bloody murder. 

It took me _probably_ a good five minutes to try to figure out how to work the blasted shower, but once it was all sorted out and at the right temperature I was in _heaven_. Showers are the only time I ever enjoy the warmth, and right now it was _just_ what I needed. 

I bowed my head, pressing one hand against the wall while I let my hair soak, and at this angle I could see the purple bruises blossoming over my ribcage, see the various stitches running over bits and pieces of my skin. 

Was it really worth it? Being forced within an inch of my life for seventy-five grand? In my mind, it _kind_ of was. I mean, I got seventy-five grand! But, if I actually _had_ died, I’d have left behind two dogs and fifteen cats and…. One human friend. At least Brendon knows well enough to take my animals, should anyone ever find my half-assed will I wrote four years ago. 

Maybe I should give Frank some of my money… I mean, he _is_ probably the reason I’m still alive. He gave me his help, whether I’d wanted it or not. 

So basically I owed Frank my life. 

_Ugh_. I hated owing people my life. 

I straightened myself out and looked around for some soap, and found three bottles on a small, built-in shelf of the shower. So, I found the shampoo and continued thinking to myself as I lathered up my hair, paying extra attention to the spots matted with blood. I mean, it _was_ honestly my fault I got jumped, anyway. I’d killed off Gallagher, and as I watched his men scatter like rats, I’d picked off the more prominent ones and decided to leave the rest go and get them tomorrow night. 

That ‘rest’ that I had let go were the six that assaulted me. They even _knew_ to take out a leg -- I mean, that’s usually common sense among criminals, but I didn’t think they’d be _that_ bright -- and when I was poked full’a bullets and properly beaten to a pulp, they tossed me in the trash and walked away snickering about the whole ordeal. 

So again, it was my fault I forced within an inch of my life, my fault I was trying to cut corners. The only reason I was down in this part of town, anyway, was because I was hired to do so! _Acgh_. I began rinsing my hair out, scowling at the shower wall. The guy who hired me had a really attractive assistant. That -- and the promise of money if I survived the assignment -- was probably the only reason I agreed. 

He even said that to me, too; _your reward is seventy-five thousand if you survive_. That should’ve been a red light right there, that, ‘hey, _maybe_ this job is a bit outta your league, _dumbass_.’ 

It was pretty obvious that I wasn’t thinking correctly, either. I _never_ let things like that slip. But, in my own defense, I did just kill a major crime lord and all but six of his men, so I _did_ kind of want to get the hell outta dodge. 

With a sigh, I started conditioning my hair, flinching at my rib pain as I allowed my thoughts go silent for a while. It was after my hair was both blood and soap free, that I’d stole Frank’s body wash and began thinking again. 

As I washed the remaining blood off the rest of myself, I let my fingers drift gently over the stitches on my upper body. Luckily both the bullet and the stitching missed my tattoos over on my left side. I had none on the front of my right shoulder, only on my shoulder blade. My left hipbone, however… _right through the middle of my Ace of Hearts tattoo! Ugh!_ Then there was the stitching that was right in the middle of my fucking stomach. God, that was going to leave a mark. I could almost feel it. But, what confused me about the stitching, is it looked almost _professional_. 

Who the bloody hell _was_ this guy? 

I finished rinsing my body off, and after rinsing through my hair once more I shut the water off, reaching through the curtain for the fluffy grey towel I saw hanging under the window. As smoothly as I could -- which wasn’t smooth at _all_ , since I felt like I’d been hit by a bus -- I pulled the towel into the shower with me. A couple quick scrubs through my hair, first, then a quick run over the rest of me with it before I wrapped it around myself and slid the shower curtain back. I let out a quick, high-pitched yelp when pain shot through my upper body, my ribs cracking and stitches stretching. 

As easily as I could, I _somehow_ made it out of the bathtub without falling on my face. How I did it, I have _no_ idea. But I had my one good foot planted firmly on the rough, tan floor mat, the toes of my other foot barely grazing said mat. 

It was standing there in that moment where I realized my predicament; I was freshly showered, nice ‘n squeaky clean with abso-fucking-lutely _nothing to wear_. My outfit was torn to shreds, and there was no way in flaming Hell that I’d even remotely think about putting on my bloody under garments, either. 

“Maybe I can bribe Frank into snatching some’a my clothes for me…” I muttered, hobbling back out into the main room. I planned to flop my ass back on the couch and boredly await his return. After all, I saw zero forms of entertainment out there -- unless I counted the many crates of military-grade weaponry sitting around. 

As soon as I noticed the jacket on the counter by the door, a gruff voice spoke out from directly behind me, “What did I tell you ‘bout stayin’ put?” 

_Speak of the Devil and he shall appear…_

I screamed. Out loud, high-soprano and _real_ girly. 

Wasn’t proud’a that… 

I jumped out of my Goddamn _skin_ and damn near fell on my ass, turning around as I tightened my grip on the towel. My breathing was heavy, and I glared at Frank, who was leaning on the wall right beside the bathroom door. Arms crossed, real relaxed lookin’, though he was looking off towards the window that overlooked the street outside. 

I let my guard down. _That’s_ why he’d scared me, and let me tell you; if I had two good legs he’d’a gotten a nice beating for scarin’ the hell outta me, towel and dignity be damned. 

“ _Frank!_ ” I snorted, regaining what little composure I had left, “You scared the _fuck_ outta me, what the _hell_?!” 

His expression said, ‘you’re in _my_ apartment’ but his voice said, “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?” 

He was still talking to the window. Maybe it was me being _only_ in a towel, dripping wet, standing in the middle of his apartment that made him slightly uncomfortable, “I was covered in dried blood and sweat. I needed a shower. Would you _really_ want that on your couch?” 

“That couch is shit, anyway. No one but you’s ever been on it,” he scoffed, turning his gaze to his boots. 

“Y’ain’ lookin’ at me,” I raised an eyebrow, “Why?” I knew damned well, why. I just wanted the satisfaction of hearing him say it. 

“Don’t’chyu got something to put on?” 

“ _Well_ ,” I began, “ _Someone_ decided to shred my clothing, so no, not really.” 

I had no quarrel with laying around in a towel, but apparently he had a quarrel with it. He pushed off the wall, towards a makeshift dresser -- it was just small table with stacks of nicely folded clothes on it. He immediately grabbed two things, without even needing to search, first, and took a step and a half closer to me, holding them out. 

I hesitantly reached out and grabbed the items from him. I could tell that both were well-worn and despite how much _actual_ effort it took for me to reach out, a small smile pulled at the corner of my lips, “Uh… th… thank you.” And I meant it. I honest to God _meant_ it. I think I’ve said an actual thank you probably… three times in my entire _fucking_ life. 

It felt weird and made me want to vomit. 

I began making my way back towards the bathroom to change, and hang up his towel that I sort of stole, and even though he still wouldn’t look at me, Frank offered an arm for stability. I gladly took it. All this moving around was putting a strain on my knee, despite me not even putting any _weight_ on it. 

I hate being injured so _Goddamn_ much. 

“Thanks,” I muttered, swapping out his arm for the door frame. In two quick hops I was inside and this time I knew to close the door behind me. 

Black shirt and red-plaid flannel PJ pants. Comfy. I set them on the corner of the counter, by his shaving cream and razor. Then I took the towel off, scrubbing it through my hair once more before hanging it back up to dry. I glanced at myself in the mirror, then. 

I was covered in tattoos and bruises. 

With a deep breath, I grabbed the pants, the fact that I had nothing to wear under them only barely registered before I slipped them on. As expected, they were a bit bigger than I was, so I had to pull on the drawstrings quite a bit before they hung nicely on my hips. 

Then there was the plain black t-shirt. Again, it was expected to be bigger than I was, but I happen to enjoy over-sized shirts. But, again, still nothing to wear under it. Even still, I slipped it over my head, then turned and pulled the door back open. 

It almost hit me in the face. 

With a snort and an expression that both clearly said ‘I am done with everything in my life right now’, I once again eyed up my current predicament. I needed to make it about… seven… ten feet, _maybe_ , to get back to the couch. 

“Need a hand?” Frank was there, still -- _obviously_ , I’m in _his_ apartment -- and he was offering out his arm again. 

I shook my head, determined not to bother the nice man for any more help. So three hops -- albeit, they were quite painful hops that sent shocks of pain up my leg, through my entire _fucking_ body -- and I was at the couch. I maneuvered my way around the side of the couch, and flopped over on it, laying my head on the pillows. 

As I folded my hands over my stomach and tried to calm my laboured breathing, Frank sat himself back on the coffee table. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees as he finally looked at me. His brown eyes were damn near as black as his hair, “Why in the hell have you got nine cats?” 

“Hey!” I grinned widely. Sarcastically, “You can look at me!” 

He ignored me, “Why-” 

“Fifteen.” I lazily corrected his assumption. Some’a my furry little roommates liked new people. Others didn’t, so they hid, “And two puppies.” 

“Fif- never mind,” he snorted, “ _Why?_ ” 

“Why not?” I shrugged back at him with a wince, “I like cats, and I do enjoy dogs when they don’t attempt to rip off my damn face.” 

He sat up, laughing airily, “Looks to me like a dog should be the least’a your problems, kid.” I raised an eyebrow at him and he explained, “Since y’run around at night gettin’ beat up, ‘n all,” he gestured to… all of me, “Are they _why_ you do that?” 

“For money ‘t feed ‘em ‘ such?” I asked, turning my attention to the ceiling, “Yeah and no. Money is a bonus, really, but otherwise I mainly do my… _job_ … because there’s far too many fuckin’ people out there who need to be put six feet under.” 

He let out a dry, humourless laugh and went silent for a minute. In the silence, I kind of thought I hit some kind of nerve on the guy. Was he going to kick me out, now? I wouldn’t blame him. I _knew_ I was neck deep in the blood of… everyone, and the fact didn’t bother me one bit. 

It should. 

But it doesn’t. 

Never has. 

Never will. 

Frank’s hesitant, gravelly voice broke me from my reverie, “Was there something that…-” 

“Triggered my sociopathic tendencies?” my voice had a bit of an edge when I cut him off. This was starting to sound a lot like my old therapy sessions back in Arizona, and I didn’t like it one bit, “My therapist kept _insisting_ that I was an animal abuser, since she was so _thoroughly_ convinced I was. When she wouldn’t drop the fuckin’ subject I dropped her, instead.” let's just say she was persistent in her assumptions, and kept trying to worm a confession out of me. 

She wasn't the best therapist... 

Again, I was kinda worried about the impression I was making on him. I mean, I’d _really_ like to jump this man’s bones and if he figured out I was -- more or less -- mentally unhinged, I don’t know how far I’d get. But, what’s said is said and I can’t exactly deny my _allegations_ that I’d… attacked my therapist. 

He only _humphed_ , eyes wandering as he thought of what to change the subject to. Y’know? Change it off the last mental rubber band of mine that finally snapped. I think his eyes found the my left ankle tattoo. Or my right ankle tattoo… he was looking in the direction of the end of the couch that my feet were towards, alright! Gimme a break, I did just almost die, y’know… 

Either way, he started askin’ about my ink, “So, you really like your cats, don’t you.” 

“What makes y’ask?” I sassed, “The fact I’ve got fifteen’a the lil’ blighters?” 

“The… the tattoo,” he motioned towards his own right side as he made a half confused, half slightly-irritated expression, “Why?” 

“Y’sure ask a lotta questions, don’chya,” with a gasp of… well, I don’t want to admit it was pain, but let’s face it; _it was a gasp of pain_ \-- I propped myself up on my elbows and shifted to hike up the hem of the shirt I was wearing, just enough so I could see the tattoo he was inquiring about, “This’n’s the one you were lookin’ to get explained, I’m assuming,” it was a cat’s paw print inside a heart, complete with the quote, " _No Heaven will not ever be Heaven be; unless my cats are there to welcome me_." I sighed sadly at it. I got it after my cat Billy passed away. Despite me referring to all of my pets as ‘my baby’, Billy honestly was _my_ baby. 

I refuse to cry in front of this attractive, really kind stranger, “Yeah… I love ‘em all to bits. And I miss ‘em. Haven’t seen ‘em since… yesterday evenin’. So yeah, love ‘em all a lot. ‘m an animal person…” I trailed off, noticing I was rambling. 

“I noticed,” he stood, headed out of my line of vision, towards the kitchen, looked like, “You hungry?” 

_Starving_ , “No, ‘m good.” 

He came back with a glass of water and handed it to me, “Drink it.” 

“What’d’y put ‘n it?” I eyed it suspiciously, glancing up at him with one raised eyebrow. 

Hey, I said he was attractive and nice. That don’t mean I gotta trust him. 

“Water,” he crossed his arms, “Now drink it. You haven’t had anything in at least twenty-four hours,” he walked away again. 

Damn he’s good. I wanted to guzzle the water, trust me, I did. But instead I opted for gentle sipping, “Toss me a can’a chicken noodle soup,” I called over to him. 

“Thought you said you weren’t hungry,” he quipped, already returning with a fork and a can. 

I liked this guy. He didn’t question why I ate soup straight from the can. 

Frank sat back down on his coffee table, again, offering up the open can of chicken noodle soup, “You take that, eat it _slowly_. Don’t want you upchuckin’ on my flooring,” and he stood up, “After that, you get some rest.” 

What is he, my father? 

I grit my teeth at the mere mental-mention of that man. But one look at Frank and my bubbling anger subsided again, mellowing me out as I took a forkful of noodles and shoved it into my face. 

Who the hell was this dude? There was only _one_ other person who had that effect on me! 

“Where are you going?” I finally noticed he had his normal-jacket back on. Not the black one I was bleeding all over earlier this morning, though. The dark one he’d worn out to my apartment this morning. 

The dark one he had on the first time I met him three weeks ago. 

“Out,” this man was _so_ talkative, my _gosh_. 

“Alrighty,” I wasn’t one to pry into business that wasn’t my own, “I’ll stay here. Hold down the Alamo for ya’.” 

He didn’t question it, just went to the door, “‘member what I told you,” he reminded me again, “Eat and drink slowly, then freakin’ rest.” and he walked out, closing the door behind him. 

I heard it lock. 

But the thing I was wondering more about was the way he was talking. He said _freakin’ rest_ in such an exasperated tone that it was almost like he _knew_ I wouldn’t usually sit on a couch. 

Or like he knew I usually didn’t follow orders from people -- am I really _that_ easy to figure out? 

'f course, I _did_ just tell him I don't take orders from people... 

I sat and debated with myself over this topic until I finished my soup and water. And given that I was _ordered_ to eat and drink slowly, it took me about fifteen minutes to get it all down, _and_ with only a minimally upset stomach! _Yay_! 

Then I fluffed the pillows behind me and was out like a Goddamn light the second my head hit the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me like 2 hours to go through and italicize and paragraph everything my brain is dead bye


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More diggin' into Bekah's life. She's also still hella confused about...well, Frank
> 
> {{And also, he thinks it's a good idea to take a wounded, barefooted woman outside [[when she's wearing his clothing]] so}}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone give me reassurance that I'm Frank-ing correctly. I feel like I'm getting his characterization all 50 Shades'a Fcked up

It wasn’t the soft slurping noise that prodded me awake. It was me literally just _sensing_ the presence of another human being in the same room as me, so I pried open my eyes to see who was hovering. 

Again with the unrecognizable ceil- wait… 

_Right…_

_Let me guess_ ; if I take a glance towards the wall by the door, Frank will be leaning on the wall, there, slurping a can of soup. 

Sure enough, my hunch was right. 

What was it with this guy and his canned foods? _Mainly his soups, but still,_ “Mornin’, sunshine,” Frank grumbled. 

“Why is it, that _every time_ I wake up, I see you, and you’re leanin' by the door eatin' soup out of a can?” 

He shrugged, tilting his head back as he drank whatever was left inside. Then he set the can down next to the three other soup cans, which confused me, because he’d just finished his third can -- but then I noticed he took my can off the coffee table, and my empty glass of water, “I like soup.” 

“It looks like you _only_ like canned foods…” I glanced around at the stock he had. Still living precariously, “Which also reminds me, by the way, why’d you lock me in?” 

“To make sure y’didn’t get into any trouble,” I sat upright a little more as he started moving closer to where I was, “Believe it or not, y’seem pretty mobile for someone with one leg,” as he said this, he took his hand and -- pushing back my bangs -- pressed the palm of his hand to my forehead. A few seconds passed and he turned his hand over and pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, too, “Well, y’ain’ runnin’ a fever. Yet, anyway. Infection could still set in,” he grumbled it -- honestly, he grumbled _everything_ \-- and pulled his hand away, and sat himself down on the coffee table. Again. 

I shook my bangs back onto my forehead, blinking rapidly in confusion at his random act of what I assumed to be parental kindness, “What was that?” 

“I’s feelin’ for a fever,” he muttered matter-of-factly, “You never had anyone do that?” 

“I didn’t exactly have a _traditional_ childhood,” I huffed, looking past him. Over his shoulder. 

Well, I _was_ , anyway. ‘Till he leaned into my view to make unwanted eye contact with me, “That sucks.” 

“My whole fucking _life_ sucks,” I snapped, breaking the eye contact. Which, in all honesty, just made me more uncomfortable with this situation, because never _once_ in my life have I broke eye contact first. 

First time for everything, I guess. 

I growled and fell back on the couch, hissing through my teeth as I folded my arms back over my stomach, “I’ve learned to live with it.” 

I just continued staring at the ceiling. I was weak, and still tired, and really, _really_ woozy and when I was woozy I wasn’t myself. I was just beginning to get lost in thought when his voice spooked me back to reality, “So you’re Phantom, huh.” 

_Oh yeah…_ I sighed heavily, “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Are you sure?” he raised an eyebrow at me, giving me this… _look_. It was hard to place what exactly the look was _saying_ , but it was giving me vibes of playful seriousness. 

“Am I… am I _sure?_ What do you- _yes I’m sure!_ ” I scoffed, “Do you think I just go out and get myself shot for no reason…?” 

“Well, word around the street is Phantom took out four or five gangs a while back,” he motioned with his left hand a little and trailed off. 

“Your point?” 

He set his hand back down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “You’re tellin’ me that _you_ exterminated those rats? You’re so _harmless_ , I mean, I found you more than half dead from just takin’ out one’a them bastards, and you expect me to believe you took out four _nests_?” 

“Five.” 

“Who was helpin’ you?” he asked flatly. 

“No one. I did it myself,” how rude of him to think I needed help to do my job! What the hell? 

“You almost _died_ tryin’ to take out one leader! No way in hell you scratched out five.” 

“They weren’t the leader, they were the bottom’a Gallagher’s food chain, mate. They got more strength, more know-how to keep from gettin’ eaten, and the _only_ reason they almost killed me was cuz they shot a hole straight through my Goddamn knee so eehhhh,” I resorted back to my inner child and stuck my tongue out at him, “I ain’t as harmless as you think.” 

He sniggered, “I can look clear over your head, you were chasing a puppy down the street when we first met a while back and I watched you get tackled by a big-ass Mastiff the other day and collapse in a giggling heap as it licked you. You’re about as scary, and as harmful, as a bunny rabbit.” 

“A rabid bunny, maybe,” I muttered, “Wait, how the bloody fuck did you see that Mastiff incident?” 

“I was passing through the park,” there was that Goddamn lopsided smirk, again. _Urgh_ , “You didn’t even know that man, did you?” 

“Not at all,” I shook my head, “But, y’know. Large dog. Hard to hold the leash to.” 

“That’s what that puppy’a yours is gonna turn into, y’know that, right?” 

“Rottweilers aren’t as big as Mastiffs,” I informed him. 

“Even so, as friendly as that pup is, I can assure you he’ll tackle you quite a bit, and y’won’t have that handsome stranger pry him off for y’either.” 

“So you agree that that man _was_ indeed handsome?” I quirked an eyebrow at him, looking at him with a curious look. 

“‘s there anything else about your lil’ nightly escapades I should know about?” he ignored my question completely, tho I swear I saw a hint of that stupid lopsided grin at the corner of his mouth. 

“Why do you feel like you _need_ to know anything about my… nightly escapades?” my tone was slightly irked. Indignant? Was that the word I was looking for? Probably… 

“Because, from what I see right now,” he gave me a quick once over and raised both eyebrows at me, “You’re slippin’ and need someone to look after your scrawny lil’ ass so y’don’t get yourself killed.” 

_Why is this man so handsomely and irritatingly nice?_ “Look, I admire that you think me scrawny, when honestly I think I’m in perfect shape; not too skinny not too… large… and also,” my tone hardened and I sat up on my elbow a bit, “ _Look_. I appreciate that you feel the need to look out for my well-being -- trust me, there’s no well-being left to look after -- but I don’t want you to do that. I… _can’t_ drag you into--” 

He cut me off by placing his hand on my shoulder and pressing me back into the pillows, “Tell me.” 

I’ve asked it about seven-hundred times before and I’ll ask it again; _who the hell was this guy?_ Finds a wanted vigilante in his dumpster, takes her to his apartment and is hospitable and overly nice and understanding and wants to _help_ her out? Probably _knows_ I’m wanted for… manslaughter… and is still using such an authoritative voice it gives me no choice but to comply to his orders, “You know everything already. I usually get hired to do dirty work for someone.” 

“Who else were you working for?” 

“This guy is the only one,” I replied shortly, glancing down at the hand that was still pressed into my shoulder. My _wounded_ shoulder, no less. 

He retracted his hand, “Are you sure?” 

“Are you doubting my abilities to cover my tracks?” 

“Yes, I am,” he stood up, again, headed towards, like, the bathroom-ish area. Basically he was out of my sight, again, “How do you get your reward, kid? D’y’gotta go get it or do they bring it to you?” 

“If I’m unable to retrieve the money, then there’s normally just an envelope of money set over the back door of my apartment building,” I told him, and when I heard a grunt of disapproval I clarified, “I’m the only person who even knows that door exists. If they find the money still there the next time they come around, they take it back and stop setting it there, go find someone else to hire because I’m dead.” 

“How do they contact you?” 

“Burner phone they give me.” 

He grunted again and fell silent. 

Y’know, I think I already said this once, but Imma say it again; _I really, really hate small talk_. But, with a deep breath I grit through it and made myself as the question that would -- possibly -- begin the most irritating conversation of my miserable life, “So… do you… have any hobbies?” 

“No.” was the short-ass reply I got. 

_Well… so much for that…_ I moved my gaze from my feet, arching my back slightly, trying to angle myself to see where the bloody hell he wandered off too -- even though I fully knew it wasn’t any of my damn business -- but I settled down when he spoke up, again, with a sort of closed-off air to his voice, “You?” 

There was just… _something_ in his voice that I couldn’t place. He was baiting me, I was sure of it. Take the bait and launch into how much I love reading, and running? How I love sitting by the window in my apartment late at night, the soft glow of a nearby lamp mixing with the streetlights outside, reading with a cat curled up besides me as I listen to traffic and the sounds of the city? I kind of liked to draw, really… I don’t _quite_ think I’m all that good, but I do it anyway. Mostly my ‘hobbies’ do include reading ‘n such but in the copious amounts of free time I have I’m delving into a bazillion different cases for a bazillion different law offices -- they’re so far on the back-burner, though, that I do believe they’ve forgotten I’m working for them, but I still have their case files… 

Whoops. 

I sighed, deciding _not_ to take his bait, “No, no hobbies…” I gave myself a nice, long pause -- it was probably only about thirty seconds if my internal clock was correct -- before adding on, “I like… books, though…” 

And suddenly Frank was leaning over me, upside down because I was laying down, y’know? And he was standing up, looming over me like a really nice, angry… shadow, basically, “Well, you _do_ got a lotta books at your place, so I’d kinda hope y’like books.” 

Oh yeah. 

He’s been in my house. 

“It’s beginning to unnerve me that you’ve been inside my house without me there, Frankie,” I quipped lightly, sticking my tongue out at him for a second, “And that you decided to go… look around and see how many books I’ve got laying around… were you in my room?” 

“No, I wasn’t,” he moved, propping himself on the wall by the window, so I had to look down my nose, basically, at him at the foot of the couch, “But, there is a very large, very _packed_ shelf opposite of your kitchen counter. Hard t’miss.” 

I nodded in understanding, agreeing that, yes, the large-ass bookshelf I had was pretty damn hard to miss. I was just concerned because there’s quite a lot of books tossed about the floor of my room. 

And now he was staring at me, looking like he was waiting for an answer. I blinked at him, and he made a noise, “Well?” 

“What?” I quirked an eyebrow at him. 

_Goddamn that lopsided_ fucking _smirk!_ There it was again! He was chuckling, too, looking off towards the wall, like I did something funny, “I asked why y’called me Frankie.” 

“I did?” looking back, I guess I did accidentally call him Frankie, “Yeah, I guess I did… I don’t know why I did. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” 

“Well… don’t do it again,” his tone held both seriousness and… not… seriousness at the same time. Like he didn’t want me to call him that, but he didn’t hate the idea, either. 

I narrowed my eyes, trying something, “Whatever y’say, Frankie.” 

He looked me dead in the eye that time, his voice hardened a considerable amount, “ _No._ ” 

I raised my hands as much as I could without moving my arms and causing myself immense pain -- though I still winced a slight bit, “Sorry, mate. Won’ happen again” 

“Good,” he uncrossed his arms and started tapping the fingers of his left hand on the wall behind him, “Now, let’s say we get your ass off that couch and up and around the place.” 

I didn’t like there this was going, “Why…” 

“It’s four in the afternoon the day after you’ve been shot,” he started forward, seating himself on the coffee table, again, “You need some Ibuprofen, then y’need to be movin’ around so your leg don’t lock up, get the blood flowin’ and used t’walkin’ on it. Bein’ laid up for the next three or four months at _least_ -” 

I cut him off with a start, “Whoa, whoa, _whoa_ there, boi. Three or four _months?_ ” 

“-don’t mean y’gotta be a couch potato the entire time,” he finished slowly, “ _Yeah_ , three or four months. Y’can’t just go back out and start kickin’ ass willy-nilly with a bum leg.” 

“I was thinking maybe a couple’a _days!_ ” nonetheless, though, I did need to get up. I’d been sleeping all day, I was hungry as all hell and my jaw hurt -- from teeth grinding -- and I could feel numbness starting to seep into my right leg. It made my knee feel like it was filled with molasses, “But now I gotta sit tight for freakin’ _months?_ ” 

He reached out his arm for me to grasp onto while I worked to move into a sitting position, “Yes, months. Are you honestly _that_ careless about your body?” 

I felt like he was insinuating something else behind that question, but I didn’t ask, “I’m not… usually… this careless, it’s just, I use… _Phantom…_ as an outlet for my anger, and my constant energy. What am I going to do if I can’t go leaping over rooftops and beat up the scum of this city?” 

He shrugged, pursing his lips in that typical shrug-face way, “Walk your dogs. I saw y’got another Rottie, by the way. ‘s cute,” still allowing me to grasp his arm, he stood up, slightly, reaching his other hand for mine, “Up.” 

I put literally _all_ my weight on his arms, using solely my arms to get me into a standing position, and even then, only my left foot was on the ground, “Hi…” I looked up at him, suddenly a bit self conscious of how close we were. 

_And his arms were so hard! My God he’s so freaking muscley! Acgh!_

He was also quite warm. My hands were on freakin’ fire from holding onto him. He was smiling a little, “Wanna walk?” 

“No, I’d rather flop back on the couch and give up on life all together, really,” I muttered, “But sure. Lead the way, sir.” 

Ever so gently -- more gentle than he looked physically capable of being -- turned me around so my back was to him, always keeping a steady hand on some part of me to make sure I didn’t topple over, “We’re walking this way.” 

So… his arm was… around my back, now. Went and snaked it’s way there when I was getting distracted by Frank’s… everything, basically. And his fingers were gently curled around my left side, arm resting comfortably across the centre of my back, “That way,” I nodded, regarding the small kitchen with a weary look, “We’re walking… that way…” 

Leave it to me to be _such_ a procrastinator that I’m attempting to disobey the orders of a very attractive, very scary man who is _literally_ breathing down my neck right now. 

He put pressure on the arm that was around me -- his left arm -- silently urging me forward. I set my jaw, squaring my shoulders as I took a deep breath. I will not let this injury hold me back. 

I could already feel the blood flowing through my leg, the feeling flooding back into my toes, and I thought that _maybe_ it wasn’t as severe as I thought? Like, _yeah_ , there’s a hole through my freaking leg, but Frankie stitched it up, I’ve been resting it up for a good…. few… hours… and I’m no doctor but I _know_ that it won’t be healed up. ‘m not that big of an idiot. But still, maybe it didn’t hit any major, like, tendons and bones and stuff and wouldn’t take months to heal. With my newfound confidence, I took a step forward, left leg first, and so far so good. 

Now for the next step. Frank still had a good grip on me, staying silent but still being there for me -- why, I have no freaking idea. But I did appreciate him being there. So, still feeling quite confident, I slowly pulled forward my right leg. 

And promptly lost all balance when my leg gave out, and would have fallen face-first into the floor. It’d have been an uncoordinated sprawl akin to Brett Philips in the Brewers’ closing game of their last series against the Pirates. _Man_ that man was falling a lot… but we won so _ha!_

_Suck it, Pirates!_

But I didn’t fall. Granted, Frank’s hold on my waist -- and my right arm -- tightened almost to a bruising grip to prevent my stumble from becoming something worse, but I stayed… moderately upright, “Whoa,” he straightened me out, his hands loosening when he was content with my ability to stand, “You alright?” 

My mouth was stuck in a silent scream, no noise coming from me. I slowly scrunched my eyes shut, holding myself together. The stumble was inevitable, yes, but _all_ the feeling was back in my leg, now, and all I was feeling was _pain_. Red hot searing pain shot through and through. It felt like my entire limb was aflame and it took every ounce of my willpower not to freak out. 

Frank must have noticed, because his tone was worried and I felt him looking at me as he asked again, “You alright, kid?” 

“ _No._ ” I squeaked out, “ _Pain… ow._ ” 

I think that was the first time I’d actually verbally expressed pain. You ever have a leg fall asleep? Where it goes completely numb from, like, the knee on down, and you think, ‘Oh, I’ll get up and walk around to get the feeling back.’ And the second you stand up, it’s like someone shot a syringe of ice water into your leg, and it seems fine for just a split second, that the leg didn’t fall asleep as badly as you thought? Then you try to step forward and your ankle is _jelly_ , and you risk rolling -- or breaking -- the damn thing because it feels like a needle of novocaine was injected into your leg while you’re in the middle of trying to stand on it. So then you make a mad grab for the nearest thing -- whether it be curtains, a countertop, chair or another human being -- to stable yourself. 

And the cold numbness spreads up your leg, locking it up, stabbing in just _all_ the wrong places with tiny pins and needles to make you cry out in pain as you struggle to regain what little dignity you may have left, all the while trying to shake the feeling back into your numb leg. 

Yeah, that’s essentially what was happening with my right leg right now. _However_ , the gentle pins and needles had been replaced with, like… flaming knives slicing into every nerve in my leg. 

_Look_. I’m terrible at analogies and words as it is, and with the bloody pain in my _fucking_ leg, my mind is all sorts of janked up. 

I’m in pain. Let’s just _leave it at that_. 

All this analogy shit running through my head wasn’t doing _anything_ to help distract me. What it _was_ doing, however, was preventing me from remembering where I was and who I was with. I do believe Frank was saying something. 

A hand waved gently in front of my face and I blinked, trying to yank myself back to the present, and then I noticed that I’d somehow gotten up onto the kitchen counter, and Frank was in front of me, looking concerned, “You alright?” 

I have no recollection of placing myself on the counter, so my only assumption was Frank put me up here, though I don’t quite know… _why_. Or how. Normally if I get lost in my head like that, someone touching me will result in bodily harm aimed at them. 

“No, I’m not alright. Told y’that _before_ ,” I was hungry and slightly agitated. And, now that I was up and off the couch, I was restless. I wanted -- no, _needed_ \-- to go for a run. Like, a mile run -- or, well, a two-hundred yard dash at full speed-- _something_. I needed to move, run, jog, fucking skip- I don’t know! 

This man was screwing up my brain. I hate it. 

“D’you want-” 

“No.” I didn’t need him to finish his question to know that he was offering a hospital visit, “No hospitals. I’ll be fine.” 

He gave me a look, but didn’t press further, “Hungry?” 

“For more soup?” kind of, yeah, actually. I think I was hungry enough to eat everything within arm’s reach. 

“I was actually thinkin’ we go out, get y’walkin’ on that leg a little more,” apparently, he was absent during my little almost-falling-on-my-face episode, “There’s a little diner a few blocks from here. You feel up for it?” 

I am most certainly _not_ feeling up for it, “You’re there to make sure I don’t fall?” 

He nodded a little, which was enough for me. 

“Yeah, sure, I guess I’m up for it.” 

Even though, y’know, I’m dressed in his clothing. And have half of a good leg. And no shoes. But _suuuuureeeeee_ , Bekah. Let’s agree to go out to eat with this attractive stranger that may or may not be a murderer -- I still wasn’t too sure about that, due to the bruises and, y’know, freaking _armoury_ he had. 

But, all the same, my mouth had agreed, and that’s how I found myself being gently ushered out the door and into the hallway. And let me tell you, the fact that I was now fully conscious did nothing to improve the low-quality of what I saw the first time through. The walls were still that sickly off-grey-green colour, various cracks and stains illuminated by the overly bright fluorescent lights that flickered and buzzed overhead. 

There were only about four other apartments on this floor, that I could see, anyway. The one we just stepped from was on the end, near the staircase, and then there was another two to the left of us and one that I could see around the corner, where the hall continued around the building. 

The… is that white? linoleum under foot was peeling and stained and the floorboards beneath were creaking unsteadily under my feet, and truth be told I felt like it was going to break and I was going to fall to the next floor down. 

I think Frank noticed my interest level in my surroundings was diminishing, and so he finally said something, “Stairs shouldn’t be that big’a problem for ya, right?” 

I nodded at him, “Yeah, I’ll just use the railings as crutches, ‘ll be fine.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chillin' at a diner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm terrible at trying to describe...everything. And I actually KNOW what black coffee tastes like because it's the only coffee I drink and I drink it frequently, but I still can't... describe it.

I was most certainly _not_ fine. I’d insisted on headed down the stairs first, and as a result, when I hit the ground-level, I lost all dignity and went sprawling. When I hit the floor, I ended up rolling onto my back as I began freaking _giggling_. 

And I think Frank now thinks I’m completely bonkers. Good job, Bekah. 

But, other than that little tumble, Frank had stayed true to his word and kept my -- bare -- feet on the ground and my pretty face unscathed. Well, save for the couple bruises and cut lip I had from previous fights. 

And now we were sat in a cozy lil’ diner on the corner of W 44th Street and 9th Avenue. Granted, his version of ‘a few’ blocks was three blocks North and two East -- ergo, he was supporting the majority of my weight a _lot_ while we walked, but over time I kind of got the hang of stuff. 

Cozy little diner. I didn’t quite catch the name of it, but it was a quaint little building. The place itself was narrow, the only seating being booths lining the windows looking onto the street, and the stools standing in front of the bartop. Frank had more or less carried me to a booth off to the left of the door -- the one on the end, in the corner, and beside the fire exit -- and I gladly fell onto the peeling orange leather seats. From the way that Frank beelined for _this_ booth, though, it made me think he frequented the place. 

The tabletop was freckled grey, various chips and cracks beginning to form around the edges, though most weren’t too noticeable. The bar top was greenish, which I found a little weird; why have the tables and counter different colours? 

Then I kind of noticed that the counter looked brand freaking new and everything kind of clicked together. 

Finally, I turned my attention back to Frank, who had been waiting patiently this entire time for me to quit staring at everything, “Hi…” I smiled a little at him. 

He looked tense, but forced the corner of his lip to quirk up, “Hi.” he’d responded with the same tone I’d spoken in; short and clipped, but with no sign of hostility or ill-feelings. 

Just as I’d began cringing about the possibility of attempted small talk, a short lil’ waitress wandered over with a mug and a pot of coffee and, without a word, set said mug in front of Frank and filled it to the brim. 

I wrinkled my nose at it. 

Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ the smell of coffee. The taste? Not so much. 

_Oh_ look _I’ve zoned out again_. The waitress -- Darcy, apparently, according to her name tag -- was looking at me expectantly, her short blonde curls seeming to bounce, even as she stood still. 

I blinked a little, “Oh, uh… what’d y’say? Sorry…” 

I didn’t mean that one bit. 

“Would you like some coffee?” her tone wasn’t mean or snippy at all, despite needing to repeat herself, which I liked. 

The word, “Ew.” was out of my mouth before she’d even finished asking. She giggled, “Alright, then. Would you like anything else to drink? We got soda, beer, water, apple juice…” her voice trailed off as I watched her talk. She was cute. Bright green eyes, nice smile, soft features. She looked around my age… 

I shook my head. _Anyway…_ “Apple juice. _All_ the apple juice.” _God_ , it’d been so fucking _long_ since I’d had apple juice. I missed that shit like you wouldn’t fuckin’ _believe_. 

“Alright, I’ll get you that right away,” she set down two -- albeit, suddenly acquired -- menus on the table in front of both me and Frank, took up the coffee pot and turned and disappeared behind the counter top. 

Frank had his eyebrow quirked up, and he was swishing the mug around, looking down into the half-empty glass at his coffee, “Apple juice?” 

“Don’t judge me,” I did my best to sound offended, though it was mock-offence. 

He slurped down the rest of his drink -- and I cringed so horribly, because I could feel the heat radiating off the mug from my seat across the table. Did this man even _have_ any nerves left in his tongue and/or mouth? Or any taste buds left? 

Anyway, he’d slurped down the rest of his drink and set the empty glass back down on the table, “Apple juice is such a children’s drink, isn’t it?” 

I just noticed the permanent coffee ring stains on the table, making me wonder just _how_ often he’d frequent this diner -- he seemed pretty determined to sit in this booth, and as a creature of habit myself, maybe he wasn’t too subject to change, either, “I’m a child at heart.” 

Nothing has ever been more true and more false at the same time; I’ve been told by some -- Brendon -- that I retain a childlike essence to myself, but all the same, I had just about no childhood. I feel, as a result, I’d grown up too fast. Too fast in all the possible wrong, twisted directions I could have gone, but too fast nonetheless, “I don’t doubt that,” was all Frank muttered, though, staring out the window. 

I looked out, too, but all I saw were three people wrapping their coats tighter around themselves, and a sleek black Bel Air rolling by on the road, “Nice car,” I commented quietly. 

Frank only grunted, still without taking his eyes off the car. I figured he must be a car person to have his eyes glued to it like that -- though his hat was still pulled so far over his eyes, if it weren’t for the grunt I’d’ve thought him asleep, “So…” I began slowly, “Mind if I ask you a question?” 

“If I say no are you gonna ask anyway?” 

“Any other person, I would,” I shrugged, staring down at the open menu in front of me, but not processing a single word I looked at, “Though, I feel like I know how you… feel, I guess, so if you say no I won’t ask it.” 

“Just say it.” 

Okay, then… “ Uh, why do you… why is there a bunch of, uh… y’know… weapons… in your apartment?” 

He was quick and smooth with his reply, “I sell ‘em. Never use ‘em.” 

With the bruises he held, I guess you could assume I was right to be suspicious with his statement, “Good, I’m lookin’ for new stuff.” 

“Can’t.” 

“Thought you just said you sold ‘em,” yeah, now my mindset was settling into the idea of him lying through his pearly whites. Who says they sell weapons and then turns down an opportunity to do _just that_? 

“Sold ‘em all, already,” all this time he’d been looking out the window, but he finally looked at me, now, “You gotta wait, sweetheart.” 

“Rude,” I murmured sarcastically, “R-o-o-d,” _yes_ , I _know_ that’s far from the correct spelling so shut the hell up. 

“That’s not-” 

“Shut up.” 

Frank made a face that said ‘ _alrighty, then…_ ’ -- the wide eyes and gentle cock of his head and everything were included -- and went back to looking out the window at the passing Bel Air again. 

That’s twice now. 

Maybe they’re just lost. 

Anyhoe, I’d just possibly offended Frank over here -- it was hard to tell -- and something was gnawin’ angrily at something in my chest, trying to tell me that was wrong to offend the man. I humphed and began drumming my fingers on the table, just as the waitress lady -- _Darcy_ , I reminded myself -- returned with more coffee and my, “Apple juice!” 

Yes, I sounded like a three year old. 

Did I care? 

_Fuck_ , no. 

It was a really tall, glass, too. The condensation on the outside of the glass dripping down my fingers and onto the table, onto my lap as I downed half the glass in one swallow. 

“Have you two figured out what you’d like to eat?” Darcy was so peppy. It was both adorable and irritating at the same time, and her cuteness was preventing me from being one-hundred-percent angry with her. 

Plus it was kind of her job. 

Nonetheless, I still felt slightly embarrassed that I had completely forgotten there was a menu even in front of me, so I slowly picked it up and started speed-reading through it, though nothing looked appetizing at the moment. 

I’ll just… “I think Imma have a chocolate chip muffin…?” 

“Would you like a cup of coffee with that?” Darcy made a little bit of an apologetic face, “I’m required to ask, sorry.” 

I nodded, “Yeah, sure.” 

If all else fails, Frank will drink it. 

I think, anyway. 

If not, oh- _freaking_ -well. 

Darcy finished scribbling down my order on a little notepad and smiled over at Frank, now, “And for you, sir?” 

He gave her a wry smile and waved his coffee mug around, “Jus’ more coffee for me, ma’am.” 

Darcy grinned widely at him, showing off her perfect pearly whites, “I’ll be right back with your guys’ orders.” 

I couldn’t help but stare as she flounced away again, couldn’t help eyeing up her butt in that just-short-enough red uniform skirt. I let out a breathy sigh and straightened back out in my seat, ignoring the look I was getting from Frank, “Think I can get ‘er number?” 

“‘f y’quit lookin’ at her like that, maybe,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “She’s too cute to swing my way, anyway,” I huffed, sliding lower in my seat. I crossed my arms, “I never get any’a the cute girls.” 

I had the suspicion I was either weirding Frank out, or confusion the living daylights outta him. 

If I was just weirding him out, it was quite fun. But I had the feeling I was confusing him so I elaborated. Vaguely, but elaboration nonetheless, “No preference.” 

“‘s none’a my business,” he was back looking out the window, narrowing his eyes at something. 

I was about to follow suit, but Darcy had returned with a fresh pot of coffee and a mug, which she set on the table before filling it up for me, “Would you just like me to leave the pot here?” 

“Yes, please,” I chirped, my nose twitching at the alluring scent of coffee. 

_Yes_ , I know I don’t drink coffee, but Frank at the moment is refilling his third mug already. 

_He drinks coffee._

Darcy had already disappeared again, probably to go grab my my chocolate chip muffin that I wasn’t planning on eating, and I was now looking disdainfully at my coffee, “Frank y’wanna drink this?” 

“‘f y’didn’t want it, why’d you ask for it?” he didn’t sound mad or anything. He sounded more like he was wondering why a three year old tied their shoes together. 

“Her sweetness is intoxicating,” I pouted. 

“At least try some, first,” he nudged the mug towards me, “‘f y’don’t like it, I’ll drink it.” 

I took a deep breath, cupping my hands around the white mug. It was searing hot and made me shudder, “Do I have to?” 

“Yes,” he looked like he was enjoying my struggles. 

That jerk. 

I ever-so-slowly lifted the mug up to my mouth and took a quick sip, and immediately after, I pulled away and almost dropped the coffee in my lap, “ _Ouch!_ ” 

I think I was right in my suspicions of Frank not having any nerves in his mouth. I just burned off the taste buds on the tip of my tongue, and if he’s drinking this stuff as easily as he is… yeah. No nerves. 

Or taste buds, because this shit tastes like burned asphalt. 

I was coughing, now, struggling to keep my shuddering in check as I set my mug back down on the table as quickly and as smoothly as possible, “ _Jer-k-k_.” I stuttered out. 

He was _snickering!_ Well, more shaking with not-so-stifled-laughter as he reached for my unwanted coffee, “See, that wasn’t so bad.” 

“For _you_ , may-be…” I scowled at him, trying to clear the tickle in the back of my throat. I ended up sounding like an irritated pterodactyl-lizard-zombie… _thing_ , though, which made me giggle, “I almost fuckin’ _died_.” 

His chuckling got worse after that, “Sounds more like a you-problem.” 

_Asbestos mouth…_ I thought angrily. 

I swallowed my retort for a moment when Darcy returned with my chocolate chip muffin, setting it in front of me, “Here you are! Fresh outta the oven, too. Enjoy!” she started back behind the counter, “If there’s anything y’need, don’t hesitate to call!” 

I smiled widely at her and waved a little as she left, “Thank you!” 

As soon as she was out of sight I returned my attention back to Frank, the smile wiped from my lips, my expression back into all seriousness, “Well it kind of would be _your_ problem because I’d’ve died on your watch and you’d… well, you’d honestly get away with it,” my seriousness deflated and I probably sounded a bit sad, “No one would notice me missing. But adding onto that, you’d’a put in all that work making sure I didn’t bleed to death in a dumpster only to have my actual cause of death be death-by-coffee.” 

He offered up a half shrug, prying his gaze from the window long enough to look at me, though there was… _something_ in his eye, “Yeah, wouldn’t wanna waste all that effort it took to pin you down and dig the bullets out. You as hard to hold onto as a worm.” 

“What’s wrong.” it wasn’t a question. 

“We need to leave. _Now_ ,” as he said that he was sliding to the outside of the bench seat, standing up, “How’s the leg?” 

“I wanna chop the damn thing off,” I was also standing up, sighing contently when my bare feet hitting the cracked linoleum, “Otherwise I s’pose I can hobble and-or hop quick enough.” 

He set a small stack of nicely folded bills on the table and gently took hold of my elbow, helping me along at the same time as tugging gently, “ _Wait!_ ” I lurched back, slipping my arm from his grasp to head backwards a bit. 

He waited, giving me that _look_ again and I came back to him, looping my arm through his while holding up my other hand, “Muffin.” 

He sighed heavily and continued headed towards a severely back door of the building, pulling a little harder on my arm once in awhile, though his grip never tightened on me. I do think, though, that I was holding up quite nicely for someone with one leg, compared to him, who had two. 

So now I was in a back alleyway kinda place with a handsome, dark, mysterious stranger, though I felt like _he_ wasn’t the danger. 

And I only thought that because of his hospitality towards me. 

And, also, because when I glanced back to the dimly-lit street, I saw that sleek black Bel Air parked on the side of the road. 

I sighed heavily and adjusted myself to keep better pace with Frank. 

I didn’t even get Darcy’s number, dammit.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah gets a stick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> {{I literally do NOT know how to summarize this chapter without spoiling stuff so whoOps}}
> 
> Also; this one's really short  
> And sorry for goin' AWOL on y'all for a couple'a days

So, now I’m plopped back on Frankie’s couch -- honestly, at this point in time I think it’s more my couch than his, anyway -- with my still-dirty feet, well… _on_ his couch, laying in his vacated apartment. 

Why was it vacated? 

Yeah, beats me. 

He got me situated on the couch again, same position as I usually was and everything. He made sure I was all comfy and such, and then he just… _left_. 

If a series of question marks had a noise, I’d be making said noise at the moment. 

That was… oh, I dunno, an hour ago, maybe, that he walked out the door. My internal clock was telling me it was around eight at night and I was wide a-fucking-wake with nothing to freaking do. 

I wasn’t tired at all, so I couldn’t just… _fall_ asleep… 

Tick… 

Tock… 

Tick… 

Tock… 

Tick… 

Tock… 

Wow, his ceiling is _so_ interesting…. 

Tick… 

Tock… 

Tick… 

Tock… 

_Goddammit!_ I sat up, swinging my feet off the couch so I could stand up. The floor was cold, but it was a nice type of cold, and I wiggled my toes as I slowly moved towards the kitchen counter. 

When I got near the edge of it, I just let myself fall hands-first into the edge of it so I could kind of just… _draaaaag_ my feet across the floor, “The hell?” 

I found Delilah. 

She, my knives, and my other pistol -- Daniel -- were all laid out nice ‘n neat on the countertop. I can’t believe that I hadn’t noticed them all before. 

My pistols were unclipped, the clips emptied and extra bullets -- there were only the two bullets from Delilah, I’d emptied the clip on Daniel -- were set together in a precise, straight line. The knives had been sharpened and cleaned, and both pistols cleaned as well. 

“That’s… strange… that he cleaned my weapons for me…” I mused, “Nice of him to do so, but strange altogether.” 

Why does he even know how to do that? p>Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that I’m bored out of my fucking mind and I have no source of entertainment. The man doesn’t have any books, no TV, not even a freaking radio… he has about three police scanners, though, and I could hear them buzzing with chit-chat, but nothing decipherable. p>Even so, I went over to the table they sat on, running my left hand’s fingers gently over the tops of them. In the light filtering in from the window, my hand looked terrible. Bruised and scabbed knuckles, cuts and scrapes. That lil’ ol’ Deathly Hallows tattoo near the base of my thumb. 

The end of the table was situated near the window, so I pulled open said window and dragged the chair nearer to it, sitting myself down with my arms folded on the windowsill. There was a light breeze blowing through town and with it came the smell of… well, the city. Various foods and beers, but also car exhaust and gasoline with the faint smell of nearing autumn. Even the wind had a tint of coolness to it. 

I laid my head on my arms, sighing heavily as I closed my eyes, listening to the soothing, familiar sounds of Hell’s Kitchen. 

***.*.*.*.***

So, _apparently_ , I’d fallen asleep at the window, but when I’d woke up I was back on the couch. So, either I’ve resorted back to my old sleep-walking habits, or someone put me back on the couch. I blinked the blurriness from my eyes, trying to focus enough to hear the inevitable soup-slurping. 

But the apartment was silent. 

_That_ sprung me into panic. Frank is usually here when I wake up, where’d he go? 

I sat up with a sharp hiss; my abdomen felt like it’d been ripped the fuck open. Did I care at this moment? _No_. As quickly as I could, I slid my legs back onto the floor, determined to find Frank, wounds permitting or not. 

My thoughts were buzzing with bad news. What if he was taken by Gallagher’s men? Or Mayarucci’s men? Or Rus- okay, _look_. I’ve pissed off a lot of people, and odds are they’ve got constant eyes on me. I really, _really_ hope they hadn’t found Frank. 

Leave it to me to kill the one nice man left in Manhattan. 

And just knowing that it wouldn’t be on my conscience at all seemed to pick at a nerve in my head, so I _really_ had to find him before he got into trouble. 

Though, just as I’d set my hands on the coffee table in order to shove myself to my feet, the front door’s locks clicked and the door creaked open. So best I could, I flung myself back into a lying position on the couch to offer up the illusion that I was woken by the door. 

Apparently, it didn’t work, because Frank’s eyes were on my the second he walked through the door, “You alright?” 

“Why do you have a stick?” He was holding, well, a _stick_ in his hand. The entire length of it was ridged, and it sounded hollow when he tapped the end on the floor. It was pretty tall, going up to Frank’s ribs, at least. 

He pulled it off the floor, adjusting his grip on it as he closed the distance between us, holding it out for me, “Yours.” 

It was a _literal_ stick of bamboo. Hollow, like I’d thought, and about two inches in diameter, from the looks of it. I regarded it with an uneasy gaze, “... _mine?_ ” He was over by the counter, now, piecing back together my guns, and I got kind of offended, “Hey! Don’t touch Delilah-” with an angry grunt, I used the staff to push myself to my feet. Using the thing as a cane, I walked over to him best I could. 

My action made him pause, “It works.” 

“My leg does _not_ work,” I huffed. All the weight that was supposed to be on my leg was now on the staff in my right hand, and the whole idea couldn’t be working better, really, “Now put Delilah _down_. Daniel, I don’t care if you feel him up but _give me her_ ,” I held my hand out across the table. 

Frank gently set Delilah in my palm, “There you are.” 

“How did you even-” I hooked her in the drawstrings of the pants I had on, “Whatever. Why do I have a stick?” 

“It’s a walking staff for your leg,” Frank seemed distant right now and it was kind of scaring me. 

“Why _bamboo_ , though?” out of all the wood he chose, he picked one from China? Where’d he even get this from? 

Frank shrugged, “More tensile strength than steel. Withstands compression better than concrete. Possibly the strongest stuff on the planet. The stuff you get into… you’re gonna need a long-lasting staff to keep your ass upright and breathing.” 

I cracked a small smile, “Thanks…” 

“Y’gotta go home, now.” 

My small smile faltered and disappeared completely, “I need to- I- _What_? Wasn’t it _you_ who was a strong advocate for me staying here?” I took Daniel from him, too, now, sticking him in my pocket. 

Hey, he was empty-clipped, it was safe. 

Frank waved his hand, “I _know_ what I said. But you got your staff, now, to help with your walkin’ so you don’t need to be here anymore.” 

I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of offended. Three days on his couch and he’s already sick’a me? “Alright.” I wasn’t about to argue my case. 

I mean, why _would_ I? I didn’t want to put him in danger by being here to begin with, I was so stubborn, fighting to get back to my house all the time just for Frank’s protection. And now that I had to finally leave I just… I guess I just liked having human interactions. 

Liked having someone looking after me for once… 

“Yeah,” I nodded, turning to head back to the coffee table where only my bandana laid -- Frank must’a took away the bloody shreds of the rest of my clothing, “Yeah, I’ll go,” I swiped my bandana up, tying it back around my neck. I stuck my new staff in the crook of my right elbow so I could tug the cloth over my mouth and nose, and turned back to face Frank. 

He looked a bit taken aback, so maybe I still had a slight fear-factor to me, since he knew… what I did, what I _could_ do. 

And since the skull was a bit spooky lookin’, strongly countering my innocent-looking features, “See y’round, Frankie.” 

He didn’t correct, this time, “See y’round, kid,” Frank stayed behind the counter, watching me slip my boots on, and he called me as I was just about to step into the hall, “Hey.” 

I poked my head back around the side of the door, “Yeah?” 

Frank’s mouth quirked up at the corner, and he looked down at the countertop for a moment before finally looking me in the eye, “Be careful out there, kid.” 

I flashed a quick, toothy grin at him, though he didn’t see it beneath my mask; only saw the crinkle of my eyes, “No promises.” 

I shut the door behind me, and here I was, standing alone in the dark-ass hallway of a scary-lookin’ building, being disowned by another man I cared about for the second time in three months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grrr  
> The clock ticking isn't the same as it is in Google Docs, cuz every-other one was s'posed to be indented and I can't do that in here.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck's up at 2am for another night in a row; it's become routine for her by now
> 
> Her routine's about to be derailed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter tonight, since I feel bad for going awol on y'all for the past, like, three days please forgive me

_I am still freakin’ laid up!_ I swear to fucking _God_ it’s been, like, nine months since I was last able to go out as Phantom! _Acgh!_ Is this was pregnant ladies feel like?! 

As I limped towards my lil’ ol’ corner kitchen -- I was getting slightly better at moving without my staff -- I got a good glance at the calendar and threw my hands up; seven weeks. _Seven weeks._ It’s only been seven. _freaking. weeks._ since my layoff started, all because I got freaking shot--! 

Deep breaths, Bekah. Deep breaths… 

_Okay!_ At least I’m learning to both fight and walk with my bamboo staff stick thing that-- 

Frank. 

Not that it’s really any’a my business or anything, but… I wonder what he’s been up to since he all but tossed that stick at me and told me it’d be better if I get outta his apartment. 

Like I said; none’a my business, but I’m still allowed to wonder. 

I found nothing of interest floating about in my kitchen -- having run out of alcohol quite sometime ago, and not being hungry at this precise moment in time -- so I went over to the couch to flop my butt down beside the three dogs -- I’d got another one tehe -- so I could play me some video games. 

Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking; it’s almost two in the morning! Who in their right mind takes a shower, then lays around their apartment playing video games at two in the morning? That’s such an absurd idea--blah, blah, _blah_. 

Well, you’ll be quick to learn that I’m not in my… “right mind”. 

And so, half naked -- booty-shorts and a sports bra, calm down -- with damp hair on my head and fuzzy, red plaid booties on my feet, I settle in to wreak havoc upon the city of Los Santos and the other surrounding towns in San Andreas. 

About a half hour, maybe, give’er take a lil’, there was knocking on my front door. Gruff thumps, made with the side of a fist, not the knuckles. The knocking sounded slightly stressed and pretty persistent. 

And, y’know, a really cool thing about my lifestyle that I have here, is that… I don’t ever really make friends, ergo, I _never_ get people knocking at my door. Especially at two in the morning. 

So, the entire time I was making my way over to the door, picking my way around the sleeping cats that were scattered around my apartment, I was both grumbling about whoever was interrupting my video games, and wondering who the fuck it actually _was_. After all, I had all of… one total friend, really, and he sure as hell didn’t knock like _that_. Or, well… at all. Brendon just waltzes in like he lives here. 

I’d just gotten to the point in my thought process of, ‘hey, if it’s a murderer out for my pretty little head, I'm doomed.’ when I’d opened the door. When I saw the person in the hall, I let out a petrified squeak and quickly swung the door back shut -- almost to the point of me slamming it. 

And then, I grimaced and slowly opened it back up, “Sorry… that was rude. Y’jus’ surprised me.” 

Frankie looked… skittish. He was looking both ways up and down the hall. Repeatedly. And was, as per usual, wearing all black, “Lemme in?” 

I jumped, wedged up until this point in time in a state of confusion and awe, “ _Oh!_ Sorry!” I stepped aside and ushered him inside, “So, uh… what brings you here…?” 

When I’d told him my apartment number and everything, I didn’t _actually_ think he was going to use the information, let alone remember it -- hell, _I_ could barely remember it half the time. Sure, I’d have loved him to use the info, but seriously. He’s known me for, what? A collective five days? 

_Seriously. What in the actual and entire flying fuck was he doing here?_

He found my puppy-occupied couch -- was he limping? -- and scootched my PS3 controller out of harm’s way before sitting down, “I need a quick stitch up. Shoulder. Can’t reach it.” as he said this, he started scratching Bucky behind the ears. 

I heard him say something under his breath to the dog as I made my way over to my cat-occupied couch -- they sometimes sat segregated like that. Said cat-couch contained Pie and Winky, and as soon as I sat down, Winky moved into my lap, “And you believe I know how to stich stuff up… why?” 

The only response was a skeptical look. 

The TV was the only source of light, the screen of the pause menu -- the map of San Andreas -- throwing a bluish tint over the room. In that bluish tint -- and under the shadow of his ballcap that was pulled down over his his face -- Frank looked even rougher than the last time I’d seen him. The bruises fresher, the knuckle marked eyes… blacker, more swelled. 

And the limp from before that I’d noticed? 

I only shrugged though, at his skepticism, “Alright, fine. Lemme go grab my half-assed first aid kit,” he made a move to get up, instead, and I was about to tell him, ‘no, you’re hurt, sit your butt back down.’ but all that came out was, “ _Acgh!_ Winky! That’s _disgusting!_ ” 

She likes to drool when I pet her. 

Drool in _excess_. 

I quickly shoved her off my lap. As soon as she hit the floor, she promptly shook her head to re-ruffle out her fur. 

_Ew._

My sudden outburst of disgust with the cat slobber had frozen poor Frank -- though, now he had a dog snuggled cozily in his lap. It was my newest one, a red Husky pup named Cassian. I stood up, “You.” I pointed at him, “Stay. You’re hurt.” 

“So’re you,” all the same, however, he relaxed and settled back into the couch. 

“I’ve learned to deal,” I shuffled across the room and down the hallway to my bathroom, where my ‘medical kit’ was. My _usual_ medical kit was normally just a bottle of Jack, a needle and some thread, but this was Frank. As appealing as the usual sounded, I didn’t want to use my unorthodox methods on him. 

And so, I went and started digging through the bathroom closet. I grabbed the hydrogen peroxide and the rubbing alcohol with one hand, and a roll of _actual_ medical tape -- I usually just used duct tape -- and the bin of miscellaneous gauzes and wraps and bandages with the other hand. 

Finally content with my arms' full'a miscellaneous medical supplies, I meandered back down the hall and into the living room with only two stumbles -- mainly due to George, one’a my tabby babies. She’s _always_ repeatedly weaving between my feet, and since it was dark… 

Yeah. 

I shoved her unceremoniously to the side with my foot as best I could and sat back across from Frank, scattering my supplies over the coffee table. 

Granted, I could’a just been like Frank was all that time ago and just flopped _myself_ on the coffee table, “So, uh…” 

I need him to take off his shirt. Yes, that’s a weird thing to need, and _no_ , it’s not for… leisurely purposes, either. You heard him just as well as I did; his _shoulder_ needed stitching. 

“Shirt…” I finished awkwardly, avoiding looking at him. 

Amazing, that -- given how handsome I think he is -- I sure dislike looking at the man. 

Alright, that was a lie. 

I _loved_ looking at him. 

Something about him just makes me feel… 

Feelings. 

_I don’t know how to deal with feelings!_

By the time I got out of my own head, Frank was waiting and watching me expectantly, shirt removed and all. 

_God_ , I gotta stop zoning out… 

He was _toned_. Like, not to be weird or anything, but, _damn_. 

But, despite my obvious thirst for the man, his epic muscley-ness was _not_ the thing capturing my immediate interest. 

What _was_ keeping my interest, though, was what was goin’ on with him and all his muscley glory. He had scars up to ying yang, both old and new. There were cuts held together by stitching -- new cuts -- and older, already healing cuts being held closed by steristrips. More recent bruises were blossoming into black splatters that mingled and mixed with the fading grey and yellow ones that had already been wreaking havoc over his rib cage beforehand. 

This man looked like he was falling apart at the seams. 

There looked to be not an untouched spot on him… 

_Shit. I think he’s noticing I’m staring excessively at him_ , “So, uh… looks like you… have… the medical care… issue under control…” 

He gave me a look -- honestly, the skill he had with _that specific look_ both astounded and scared me -- and motioned me over to that couch with him. Reluctantly, I shoved myself to my feet and stepped around the coffee table. I prodded Bucky awake and shoved him to the floor, and then sat down. Frank still smelled _really_ good, though tonight it was gunpowder and blood, “Now what, genius?” 

“Could y’stitch up my shoulder ‘fore I bleed out?” he looked _so serious_ when he said it, but there was a hint of something else in his tone. Sarcasm? Playfulness? No clue, but I knew there was some very, _very_ slight, dry humour in his voice. 

He kind of took me as a man who didn’t use humour much. 

“Turn around,” I sighed gently, waving my hand, “Lemme see the damage.” by the looks of it, the damage he needed stitching up was probably going to be horrid. 

He turned to face the window, being extra careful not to disturb Cassian. His broad back, again, was coated in bruises, but not as many scars at the front half of him. There were a couple of old bullet wounds, that much was very, _very_ clear. Though, what was even clearer yet was there was a big-ass gouge taken out of the meaty underside of his left shoulder blade. It curved right with the bone, and was bleeding. A lot. And had been for quite sometime; that much was obvious from the copious amounts of already dried blood that was stuck to his skin. 

It looked like it hurt like a mother, but dear old Frank over here was acting like it was nothing but a pesky paper cut. 

What the hell. 

“Okay, _ow_ ,” my voice was weighed down, flat. Emotionless. Really, probably quite dry with intense sarcasm, “That looks like it hurts a bit.” 

He shrugged his wounded shoulder a little, “Could hurt less.” 

Well, first thing first, I really _should_ wash out and dress his cut, but I don’t quite think he’d like that all too much, so I opted for pulling my lighter outta the coffee table drawer and heating the already-threaded needle up -- it was already threaded because I knew how slippery blood soaked hands can get. If I needed a quick stitch up one night, I wouldn't be in the mood to deal with the threading. 

Needle heated up, I dipped the majority of it in my bottle of Peroxide, “Alright, this may hurt a bit.” 

Did I really even need to warn him? I mean, he seems to have a really, _really_ high pain tolerance. Him and his Asbestos mouth… 

And why was I being so gentle with him, anyway? I was hardly ever _gentle_ with people. Except maybe Foggy… but him and Brendon? That was basically it. Animals, in my eyes, were the only ones that deserve my kindness. 

Was it because he was nothing but understanding and kind to me those three days I was stuck on his couch? 

_Urgh._

Well, anyway. I grabbed the thread in my teeth when I was finished stitching, snapping the needle and excess string off, “There y’are, my dude,” I grabbed one’a those sticky gauze patch thingies -- I don’t know the _official_ name of them, but I know they’re way more useful than just normal gauze and tape -- and peeled off the plastic, putting it over his new shoulder stitches. 

He half turned back to me after I gave him a good-to-go pat, “Good?” 

“Good.” 

He nodded, making to stand up and -- finally -- disturb Cassian, “Well, thanks.” 

“Nope,” I grabbed his good shoulder, for some reason, and shoved him back onto the couch, “Rest.” 

“I don’t nee-” 

“ _Rest_ ,” I persisted, “You made me rest when I had a hole through my knee-” 

“And a hole through your shoulder, and side…” he began listing nonchalantly, even going as far as sticking his fingers up to count, “and your hip, and--” 

“Yeah, yeah,” each of the wounds that he’d listed off started throbbing at them being named, like they were jumping for joy someone else other than me was acknowledging their existence, “I get it. I looked like swiss cheese. All points aside, you need rest and you will get it whether you want it or not,” I let my squared shoulders slump a bit and softened my voice, “Please? Just a couple hours’ rest won’t kill you.” 

I saw his resolve fall and he laid back, “Couple hours,” he amended, lifting his hands off his stomach so Bucky could jump up and lay on him, “I’m outta here by daybreak.” 

“Fine,” I stooped and pulled from my leg Chester, my big, light cold tom cat with a bite like a Doberman and claws like a fisher. He was really, _really_ big, kinda cross-eyed and had a very, _very_ large nose. Was scary at times, but really was just a big toddler demanding to be held all the time. I propped him on my hip and began scratching behind his ears, “Daybreak is, like, five hours away. I can deal with that. Coffee?” 

“Y’hate coffee and yet you have a coffee machine,” Frank shook his head at me, “No, no coffee for me right now.” 

I took up my controller and flopped down on the cat-couch with Chester on my lap, “Suit yourself. Now, Imma get back to my game.” 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah's basically a stressed parent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothin' really interesting happens in this chapter. Sorry.

I passed out around four when I was in the middle of flying a plane, I think. Somewhere over Paleto Bay, so I’d nosedived right into Mount Chiliad. When the morning dog-barking woke me up around 6, Trevor was standing angrily outside the Paleto Bay hospital, insulting passersby -- turns out the usual morning dog barking was coming from the video game, though. I pulled out Trevor’s phone, quick, and pressed quick save, turning the game off after that. 

I set the controller on the coffee table, next to the scattered remnants of a medical kit. That didn’t phase me at all, but I jumped and swore when I saw Frank laying on the couch opposite of me. 

The fact that his presence spooked me proved that I needed to re-sharpen both my senses and my reflexes. 

I chose not to purposely wake him up as I went into the kitchen and poured food for my bajillion roommates -- and then proceeded to get trampled, basically, in the wave of fur that followed. Most could eat with one another, but there were at least five who requested, _all the time_ , that I pour them a personal bowl. 

I stooped and made sure to give each and every one of them a good scritch before headed to my room to grab clean clothes for a shower. There was dried blood underneath my fingernails, yet, and it wasn’t my own blood. That may look a little, erm… _wrong_ when I show up to work today. I can just see the conversation now; 

‘Mornin’, Bekah. There’s blood under your fingernails, what happened?’ 

‘Oh. Nah, not my blood, it’s fine.’ 

And then whomever I would be speaking with would deadpan and point to the door and say, ‘Get out.’ because _everyone_ in that office is gung-ho for saving everyone’s lives. It irritates the shit outta me. 

I mean, seriously. People suck. The faster Matt and Foggy get that through their thick skulls, the faster I can start wanting to be around them more. They don’t _know_ I’m a… what I do most nights -- well, _used_ to do. Until I’m better at walking, I can’t go out fighting. The less they know, the better, but I stand by my opinions. 

Clothing in hand, I went into the bathroom and closed both doors -- it connected to my room, and the hallway outside. I opened the second drawer down on the counter to set my clean clothes down on, and then slid open the top drawer to grab my toothbrush and toothpaste. 

I’ll brush my teeth in the shower if I damn well feel like it. 

So yeah. You don’t need to know the extent of my shower. It was just a normal shower, in and out in probably about a half hour, which, really, is a pretty quick shower for me. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste away, tossed most of my outfit on -- everything sans shirt. Yes I know I have company over but the man’s already seen me basically ninety-percent naked anyway so what’s the point. 

I popped into my room for about four seconds to toss my dirty laundry on my hamper -- I _really_ needed to do my laundry, so yeah, _on_ my hamper and the pile of clothing overflowing from the top; _whoops_ \-- before headed back out into the kitchen. My kitchen, where four cats were still eating, a dog was slurping up water, coffee was brewing and a Frank was leaning against the counter with Groovy in his arms. 

Groovy is one’a my “baby” cats and is seriously the prettiest cat I’ve ever laid eyes on. Bleached white paws, a dirty-white body, bright, baby blue eyes with a mostly-black face that was freckled through with white, brown, soft golds-- just… you’d have to see a picture of her to get what I mean. And she was so small, too. Seeing her small body, and immense beauty being held so softly by Frank was just… strange, really. Really, _really_ strange, “Well, good morning.” 

He looked up a bit, at me, not pausing the petting of Groovy, “Coffee?” 

“You know damn well I don’t drink coffee, Frank,” I snorted, moving around him and the Rottweiler that was spilling water all over my floor so I could get to the fridge, “Milk?” 

“Nah, I got coffee,” he let Groovy back on the floor and gave the drinking dog a little scratch behind the ears before pouring himself some coffee, “Three dogs now, I see. Don’t think I know this lil’ guy’s name.” 

“Frank.” 

He turned around to look at me, “What?” 

“No, uh…” I motioned towards the dog, “Frank.” 

At the sound of his name, again, the dog looked up at me and barked, shaking his head out before trotting back into the living room. Frank -- the person -- was giving me that look again, “Really?” 

I hesitated to ask, “What?” 

“You named your puppy after-” 

“I did not name him _after you_ ,” I cut him off, scooping about four spoons of chocolate Nesquik powder into my glass of milk. 

“ _Sure_ ,” he nodded, taking a sip of coffee. 

I cringed at him, taking a long drink of milk, downing half the glass, and when I saw Frank cringe, this time. I raised my eyebrows, “Can I help you, Frankie?” 

“How can you drink that?” his nose was wrinkled up, eyeing my drink up with a look of the most distaste I’ve ever seen on anyone in my entire life. 

And that _included_ the look of my mother looking at me the entire fourteen years I lived with her. 

I reciprocated Frank’s look with one of equal distaste, “ _This_ is chocolate milk and it gives me bones of steel, Mister Asbestos Mouth. Coffee just burns off your tastebuds and makes you thank God for it so you don’t have the spend the rest of the day tasting burned tar.” 

“ _Sludge_.” Frank motioned with the coffee mug towards my -- now empty -- glass, “There is a quarter inch’a chocolate sludge at the bottom’a that glass.” 

“It’s the equivalent of chocolate syrup,” I defended lightly, scooping out the last of the goop so I could eat it. Granted, yes, I do go heavy on the chocolate in my glasses, but I can’t help it. I enjoy chocolate _probably_ a bit more than necessary. 

But hey. In my defense, I think I deserve at least a _little_ self-pampering. 

“Sludge…” was all he muttered, taking in another gulp of coffee while glancing out the window. 

“Tar,” was my response, muttered through a sly grin into my empty glass. Biting my lip, I set the glass in the sink, “Gonna go finish getting dressed. B-R-B.” 

I stepped over Cassian -- he liked to block doorways and nip at my heels when I stepped over him -- and went down the hall. Past the guest bedroom -- really just a hangout for Reggie, Carmel and Pie, my three biggest recluses -- and to my room. I kept my door shut all the time, and almost _all the time_ , Chewy, my grey short-hair, was sitting in front of it, demanding I let him into my room. 

So I cracked open the door a bit and he shoved open the door and then followed him inside. Up on my bed he hopped, down he laid and asleep he fell just. like. _that_. 

(I just snapped my fingers for emphasis.) 

So, I’ve already got on mismatching Christmas-themed thigh highs and kinda-tight-kinda-loose-fitting jeans on. What the heck kinda shirt goes with these kinds of jeans? I debated it as I put on my _Fiji_ deodorant-- 

Yes, I know what you’re thinking. ‘Aahh!! That’s a _boy’s_ deodorant! Not for _girls_!’ 

‘Aahh! Does it look like I _give a damn?_ ’ I mock, using the same whining, irritating voice you are right now. 

I snort in irritation, toss on a clean _One Direction_ t-shirt, give Chewy one last scratch behind the ears -- he started purring -- and then walked back into the hall, mindful to leave the door open a crack for when Chewy wanted to leave. 

I usually _hated_ leaving my door open, but it’s a crime in this apartment to move a sleeping pet, so I must abide by my own laws. The kitchen was void of Frank, so I thought perhaps he held up his end of his deal deal and left at daybreak -- I mean, the sun was _kind’ve_ up. It’s already about quarter after seven. 

However, when I rounded the corner back into the living room, I stopped and leaned on the wall. He was on the couch -- his couch, technically, I mean, he’s bled on it. It’s his -- with one of the twins up on his shoulder. I _think_ it was Fred… I mean, he and George looked exactly the same. Fred’s just a bit… beefier… 

Anyway. Fred was on Frank’s shoulder, and, well… Frank -- the dog -- was on Frank, the _person_ ’s legs, keeping his knees buckled down and preventing the man from moving anywhere. He looked comfy, anyway. Remote in one hand, flipping through TV channels. 

I let out a laugh when he decided on watching Channel 106 on Dish; TVland. Golden Girls was playing, as usual, and big, burly, bruised-up Frankie was watching it, “Don’t laugh.” 

Damn, that’s right. My laughs are in no way, shape or form, _quiet_ , “I’m not laughing.” 

“You were laughing.” 

“Alright, fine, I was laughing,” I went over to the front door and slid my new boots on. _New_ boots that had inch-and-a-half heels on them, and were only ankle-high. The _new_ boots that I’ve only worn, like, three times. _New_ boots that give me ankle-splints like there’s no tomorrow. 

But it’s better than boots that have _zero_ heel at all, due to being broken. 

_Those_ boots joined my Boot Graveyard. Eight pairs in the graveyard, now. Three pairs in commission that are still wearable, “I _am…_ going to work.” 

Frank was regarding me with an expectant look, “Y’gonna tell me to get out?” 

I shrugged, slipping my earbuds into my ears, “Nah,” time to go through the drill with him, “Just keep the animals inside, lock the door after you leave, don’t steal anything and don’t break anything, and _especially_ do not freaking harm any of my pets. The dogs know how to let themselves out, though, so watch out for them. I’ll be home sometime today,” I stepped into the hall and was about to shut the door behind me. 

_Shit._

With a sigh, I opened back up the door, “Food for you is in the kitchen somewhere, food for them is in the cupboard under the sink. The dogs most likely _will_ let themselves out since I didn’t get a chance to walk any of ‘em this mornin’ yet, so just make sure none’a the cats get out,” _God_ , I feel like I stressed parent leaving my kids with a babysitter, “Uh… yeah. That’s it. Bye, Frankie. See y’round.” 

And then I _did_ shut the door behind me, playing my instrumental music quite loudly as I basically _strutted_ down the sidewalk; this was one of the few days my leg worked normally and I was going to enjoy it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on here are slowing a considerable amount because A) life and also B) I need to write more before posting it on here. See reason A for why writing is slow.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck's got herself some bad habits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She's also, like... 'tis hard to explain in just a couple sentences without spoiling, like, everything whoOps
> 
> Let's see if anyone can figure out the first thing janked up with her
> 
> {{Stella is another OC. She belongs to my friend, Squirrel}}

So, just about _nothing_ interesting happened at work. I showed up, was _finally_ able to give Foggy a hug this morning -- the past few weeks I haven’t because I’ve been a bit distraught about Billy… _But_ I hugged him today and he couldn’t’a been happier. 

And literally, like the first day I was working there we picked up a secretary lady… thing named Karen Page… she’s chill. I adore her. Got framed for murder but she’s all good now, I think -- like I said, I don’t really _do_ anything there, so how would I know what she does? 

I don’t quite know when Stella showed up. She’s… different. Pretty chill, but by _God_ she’s different… She needed our law services for battery charges and then pulled a Karen and just joined us. Not quite sure when, why or how, though. 

As an overall law office, we’ve had a couple’a court cases. Nothing worth noting, I’m sure you’ve been reading about it in the papers as it is. But anyway, it’s only about two in the afternoon now. I wasn’t needed at work anymore. I think. 

Like I said; my hours are _really_ lax. If there’s nothing new for me to investigate I needn’t bother walking through the office doors. 

So now I was walking up the stairs to my apartment, cursing myself for not taking my staff with me. The stairs were wreaking havoc on my knee, and it sucks balls. There was one dog -- Cassian. I recognized the deep bark -- who was, well, barking when he heard my keychain jingling. 

I never locked my door, but I still had the keys on a keychain on my belt loop. Even so, however, he still knew my footsteps. So… yeah, when I shouldered open the door, I had a Husky pup leaping at my legs, and let me tell ya, he ain’t as small as he could be. 

I stooped and picked him up, kicking the door shut behind me, “Hi, baby,” I cooed at him, glancing around the room, “Hi, Frankie,” I nodded at the couch. 

Did it surprise me that Frank was still here? Yeah, it did, since he claimed he was ‘out by daybreak’. Did it matter if he was still here? Not at all. I enjoy the human contact, and if he became a threat I could easily just kick his ass into next week. 

At least, I think… he’s a big guy, and is really spooky lookin’. 

“Hey, kid,” was his response. He had three cats on him right now, and didn’t look away from the TV when he greeted me. 

“Guys, c’mon, leave the dude alone,” I chastised the cats that were blanketing him. Fred hopped off, but Chester and Turbo? Nope. Those two boys _loved_ attention, and Frank lazily petting them was all they needed right now. 

Turbo was a really soft, really floofy more-or-less Siamese cat. Black face, bright blue eyes, bleached paws and a dirty-white body with a black tail. He looked like he had Egyptian-winged-out eyes and said eyes were regarding me with his famous look of _I know I’m pretty. Deal with it._

Carmel, Reggie and Pie were still in their room, sacked out on the bed -- Carmel is short and stubby and is basically the colour of the inside of a Milky Way bar. Pie looks a bit like Winky, only… isn’t… the same colour. Her calico is a lighter colour, and is more blended. 

Reggie owns the joint. Bright _freaking_ white, gold tail, green eyes and a mostly-gold head. He’s the oldest, the wisest, and the sassiest. 

_But anyhoe_. There was a dog on my bed, “Buck!” I snapped, “Out! Shoo!” 

He didn’t move off my bed, and with an intense sigh I began changing clothing. Better to just let the seventy-five pound dog do what he wants than attempt to move him. So, now, _Slytherin_ sweatpants, oversized _Notre Dame Fighting Irish_ hoodie and red, flannel, wool booties on, sans bra and jewelry, I went back out to grab myself something to eat. 

_Yes_. I know it’s only, what, like, two in the afternoon? I’m not going anywhere today anymore, so I may as well get comfy, “Frankie.” he hummed, acknowledging that he was paying attention, “‘chy’a doin’?” 

“Watchin’ TV.” 

_I meant what are you still doing in my house, but_ , “Alright.” I stuck a bag of popcorn in the microwave and pulled a Mt. Dew outta the fridge, popping it open, “Anything good on?” 

“Remote’s outta my reach.” 

“So what the shit are you watching?” I stepped around the counter so I could see around the corner, and jumped, “ _Oo_! Fight Club! Don’t turn the channel!” 

I saw his free hand get tossed in the air, “No remote.” 

Oh yeah, that’s right. He’s covered in cat and can’t reach the remote. _Popcorn!_ The microwave beeped and I flung open the door and pulled the bag out, pouring it into what I just referred to as the Popcorn Bowl. It was red, and popcorn was literally the only thing I ever used it for. 

So, popcorn in hand, I went and nudged at Frank’s feet, “Scootch,” he bent his legs, and I sat down when there was adequate enough seating for me, “ _Merci_.” I leaned over best I could and snatched up the remote, turning up the volume a little bit, “Ever see this movie before?” 

He deadpanned, “No.” 

Well, so much for that, I guess. 

We watched Fight Club in silence, even watching the fucking commercials with intense curiosity. Was it just me, or was this really, _really_ awkward? Like, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind having another human here, but I don’t small talk, and apparently neither does Frank. I don’t know about you, but if you’ve ever tried hanging out with a new person and _not_ talk with each other, it feels a little tense. 

What the shit do you even try to talk about with a guy who the only thing you know about him is his name? His _first_ name, nonetheless. He likes coffee and likes avoiding talking. Frank is a man of few words. Nothin’ wrong with that. 

Literally _just_ as Fight Club came back on my cell started vibrating and I swear to _fucking_ God if it’s Matt interrupting my personal time again-- oh, wait. Nope. ‘tis only Brendon. I took the phone and set the popcorn on Frank’s legs, “Gotta take this. _Pardón moi_.” 

I went and leaned against the counter, bringing the phone up to my ear, “Speak, Urie.” 

“No, no, _you’re_ the one who needs to speak,” I could just hear him shaking his finger at me, “You’re terrible at describing in text. Who the hell is Frank?” 

“‘tis a great question my famous friend,” yes, it’s _that_ Brendon. We went to high school together and kind of… dated… a lot-- _anyway_ , “I don’t know who he is. He’s really nice and really bruised up and looks like he could kill me with one hand--” 

“But he can’t, because you could kick his ass into next week,” Brendon interrupted happily. 

I hushed my voice a little more and decided to start moving around, headed back into my bedroom, “See, that’s the thing. I don’t think I _can_ beat him up. He’s twice my size in muscle mass, and he gets beat up a _lot_. His pain tolerance is wicked and I wonder what the shit he gets into.” 

“You could just _ask_ him about it.” 

“Yeah not happening,” I shoved Chewy off to the centre of my bed and flopped down. 

“Don’t know where he is, or what?” 

“No, he’s taken up temporary residence on my couch, that’s not a problem,” I shrugged, grunting when Banshee -- my smol grey baby -- hopped _directly_ onto my stomach and laid down, temporarily knocking the wind outta me, “He kinda spooks me, and…” I made a face. 

“Oooo, Beck’s got a cr-” 

“ _Shut the fuck up_ ,” I snapped. 

“Oh, come on, when did you start getting spooked by guys?” Brendon just sounded really exasperated, now. He had a right to, too. I had zero problem with seducing men -- and, well, women. One night stands were my specialty. We both knew that. 

“I get spooked by guys when they’re guys I actually _care about_ ,” I hissed. There were only three guys that I’ve ever actually _cared_ about. Technically, I mean. There were Brendon and Billy, but Matt, briefly, in college… and now Frank. I hate it, “You know that better than I do.” 

Quite interestingly enough, he knows _me_ better than I do. He knows that I’ve had a rough-ass life, he knows my quirks better than _I_ know my quirks. Brendon’s irritatingly good at reading people like that. 

Apparently when you date someone for as long as we dated -- God, I can’t even remember for how long… -- apparently you learn some shit. 

“ _Raspberry Jam!_ ” 

I snapped back to reality, “Shit! What?!” 

“You zoned out again,” Brendon said matter-of-factly, “As I was saying before, I _do_ know you better than you do. Like how right now, you’re laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, and the only thing preventing you from getting up and pacing a path into your floor is the fact that there’s a cat laying on your stomach.” 

“God _damn_ , how’re you do good at reading people?!” I nearly shouted, scaring the cats off the bed, “Teach me your ways. I can read books and you read people _like_ they’re books--” 

“Just spread ‘em open-” 

“Shut the hell up,” I laughed, sitting up, “I mean, you noticed my issue with _this_ \--” I motioned to my body. 

“There’s nothing wrong with your body,” Brendon’s tone hardened, “I don’t know why you’re so insecure with it.” 

“I have that scar on the outside’a my right calf from that dunken chain-link-fence-scaling that time,” my laughs went soft as I avoided the facts. 

One night stands? I don’t care what part’a me you see, since I’ll never see you again. If I actually _care_ about you? Imma hide everything from you. Emotions. Secrets. My body. My _life_. You name it, I’m hiding it. Being insecure about it. 

“ _Look_ ,” Brendon deadpanned again, “Buck up, grow a pair, and quit being insecure. You have nothing to be insecure about, you beautiful bastard.” 

“Well, neither do you--” 

He barked out a loud, squealing, high-pitched set of laughs that were so loud I had to pull the phone away from my ear a little, “Have you _seen_ my big-ass forehead?” 

“Kinda hard to miss it, my dude,” I snorted, “Even so, you’ve embraced it.” 

How the shit did we get talking about insecurities, anyway? And what the fuck was he originally calling me for? “I have. And you need to embrace whatever you think is wrong with you, too. I wouldn’t know what that is, since I see nothing wrong with you.” 

“Does your wife know you’re sweet talkin’ other ladies?” I quirked an eyebrow. 

“She’s okay with me sweet talking you, she adores you,” he mocked, “ _But_ , anyway, back to the actual point of me calling -- _God_ , you’re good at distracting people -- _I have_ a concert coming up in a little while that requires me to be in New York.” 

Alright, that’s all well and good, but I live in Manhattan, “Okay…?” 

Brendon sighed heavily, “ _New York is close to where you live._ ” 

Oh yeah. 

New York is, like, three feet away. 

“Well, you know the door is always unlocked,” I waved a hand through the air, “Tea is at four. There’s plenty of it. You are welcome any time. Don’t bother knocking.” 

“Don’t quote Bilbo Baggins at me!” he sounded indignant, but entertained nonetheless, “The endless knowledge of literature and torture up in that head of yours astounds me, Rebekah Hall.” 

“And general fighting,” I added as an afterthought, “I _can_ teach you some self defense if you’d just show up, protect that scrawny ass against raging fangirls.” “I know how to protect myself just fine, thank you,” Brendon, yet again, turned down my offer, “Now, I gotta run, but remember what I told you?” 

“Not one fuckin’ bit.” 

Brendon grumbled, “You’re hopeless.” 

“I know this already.” 

“Go talk to Frank,” he sassed, “I need to go. See ya later, Beck.” 

“‘aight, TTYL, my dude,” I hung up the phone, glanced at the time, darkened the screen and tossed it on the bed next to me, laying back down. 

The ceiling needed _major_ repainting. It was supposed to be freaking _white_ and oh _look_ it was grey. Ew. Maybe I could do that right now instead of going back out into the living room. _Yes_ , I know that Fight Club was on, and Frank is probably eating all my popcorn, but it’s only quarter after three and it gets dark at… what? Five? Yeah, so roughly two hours before I can go out Phantom-ing. 

Is my leg better? Hell no. 

Will I get my ass kicked? Hell yeah. 

Is it worth it to get out of the awkward situation I have with a dude on my couch? You bet your ass it’s better to get beat up than to sit in awkwardness. _However_ , my paint is in the closet by the front door, which I have to walk through the living room to get to. 

Damn. 

I pried myself off the bed, blowing my hair from my face to gather in my surroundings. _God_ , my room was a disaster. Clothing, books and weapons scattered around everywhere on the floor. I don’t even think the majority of those clothes are _mine_. Who’s they were, I wasn’t sure, but I haven’t had a, uh… person… _over_ … in quite sometime, so most of the lost clothing was probably from quite some time ago. 

And, the majority of it was dirty since I was hardly ever bothered enough to do my laundry unless it was absolutely necessary. As gross as it is, I haven’t got the attention span to remember to do it. 

My eyebrows furrowed and my scanning gaze slowed down, picking over every little thing in sight. Where were… did he…? 

_Sonuvafuckin’ bitch_. I grit my teeth and stood up, stalking back down the hallway and into the living room so I could stand in front’a Frank with my arms crossed, “You said you weren’t in my room.” 

“I never said that.” 

“ _Yes you did!_ ” I flailed my arms a little bit, “Like… four months ago--” yes, I know it was only about two months ago. Shut up, “--you said that you didn’t go in my room. If you didn’t go in my room, _where’d my syringes go?_ ” now that I look around, there’s no needles anywhere. None in the kitchen, in the bookshelves. Nowhere. 

What the shit did he do? Clean my fucking apartment? 

“Oh,” he was still monotone, “That was this mornin’ I went in there.” 

I inhaled long and slowly, “ _Why_.” 

His eyebrows went up, “Remember? I saved your life. Didn’t want y’dyin’ from somethin’ as stupid as-” “Don’t say it,” I hissed, “Y’don’t need to say it.” 

It wasn’t one of my most proudest of… hobbies. Didn’t like people bringing it up, or talking about it, really. Not that it _did_ anything, anyway. I think my guy’s been sellin’ me janked up stuff, and--hey, wait a minute-- “Where’d my mirrors and-” 

“Gone.” 

I snarled, “Are you fucking kidding me.” 

“Nope.” 

_Grr…_ “I’m going to the store.” 

“For what?” 

“ _Bubblegum._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes Rebekah Hall has banged -- multiple times -- Brendon Urie [deal with it. They've been friends since I first created her whoOps]. They went to high school together. In case y'haven't noticed, they're still good friends
> 
> {{I should really just do a background check on Bekah for y'all after I'm done with this book cuz there's so much about her that I can't casually slip into the book}}


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah goes through extensive lengths to avoid small talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas [Eve, technically] to those of y'all who celebrate it
> 
> To those of y'all who don't; have a Happy Holiday!!
> 
> Also; sorry for being awol for like 875 years I've been kinda dead [and stuck in a Harry Potter trash heap]

And bubblegum did I buy. I came back home with a gallon fuckin’ _bucket_ of the stuff. Double Bubble brand, just like the buckets they have in the dugouts in professional baseball. I never quite liked the stuff. Sure, I chewed it once in a blue fuckin’ moon like everyone else on the Goddamn planet, but I was never an _avid_ gum chewer -- I _had_ other things to keep my mouth busy, but I had a piece’a gum in my mouth right now and I was contently smacking it and blowing bubbles as I tromped up the steps of my apartment building. 

Why’d I pick bubblegum of all the things in the fucking universe? 

No bloody idea. 

But I _do_ wish I’d taken up bubblegum chewing sooner. It’s fun to make finger guns and pop a cap at someone with the sound effect from a nice bubble pop as the supposed gunshot -- really, it was a nice contrast to the constant gunshots I heard ringing in my ears. 

Though, _anything_ was better than the tinnitus ringing. 

Anyhoe, I shouldered open the front door and kicked it shut behind me, “Hey, Frankie.” 

“Hey, kid,” he was still on the couch, almost exactly how I’d left him a half hour ago, only he was regarding me with a gaze that was ever-so-slightly worried, “Where’d you go?” I waved the gallon of bubblegum at him and he seemed to relax a bit, “I thought you were lyin’.” 

“Why would you care, anyway?” I went farther inside, going to set the bucket on the counter by my toaster. Now that was I back, though, my irritation was returning. It’s not that I really _cared_ that all my… drugs… were gone, it’s that he didn’t tell me and he didn’t ask to go in my room. 

It happened this morning, already. Morning has come and gone, I can’t change it. It _should_ be water under the bridge, but my bridge in particular likes to close the flood gates and hold the water for a while. 

“Look,” and suddenly, _there was Frank_ , taking up my entire line of vision. Granted, he stood with the counter between us, but that’s beside the point; _there was a lotta Frank there_ , “It was for your own good, I think.” 

“You think?” I quirked an irritated eyebrow at him. If he wasn’t one-fucking-hundred percent sure of something, why would he violate my personal business? What _I_ do with _my_ body isn’t any of _his_ fucking concern. 

“I only _think_ because it took you two months to realize that shit was gone,” he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter, “You sure you had real-” 

“ _Yes, I’m sure_ ,” I huffed, my irritation growing. 

Y’know, for the first time since I’d first seen the man, I was actually kind of wishing he’d butt outta my life a bit. He doesn’t need to be governing what I do in my free time or what I keep in my apartment. 

I could tell he was still trying to figure out if I was a addict or not, and to tell you the truth, I was trying to figure it out, too, now. He had a point; it took me almost two months to realize everything was AWOL, and now that I knew it was gone, my irritation stemmed from him invading my personal shit, not withdrawal symptoms that should have popped up the first day and a half I went without it. 

And, now I wasn’t wondering what was wrong with _him_. 

I was wondering what’s wrong with _me_. 

“I gotta get ready,” I shook my head and headed to the back room -- _my_ room -- and shoved open the door, “ _Ey!_ ” I barked gently at Fred and George, who’d taken up residence on my bed in place of Chewy, “Y’all know y’ain’t s’posed to be in here.” 

Nonetheless, I swung the door back shut with my foot and began stripping. Off with the booties and off with the sweats. It _would_ have been off with the hoodie, too, but it was comfy and I wasn’t quite ready to give that up, yet. 

So I slid on some ankle socks, then squeezed myself into my black leggings -- they fit just fine, don’t worry, but have you ever tried to get into a pair of leggings? You have to try _really_ hard -- and then proceeded to seek out a clean-ish bra to put on. 

Clean- _ish_ because I was going to get all sweaty and bloodied up tonight, anyway, so _why_ waste a clean bra? 

But anyway. Black tank top with a -- you guessed it -- _black_ tailcoat vest… _thingy_ \-- it looked awesome, that’s all y’gotta worry about -- was what I had on for the top-half’a my body. Then I got the bandana and the leggings, with my boots and my staff… 

I guess I really was a ghost. 

When I went back into the living room, I was in the middle of brushing my hair, pulling it up into a high ponytail. Frank was giving me a weird look, “Goin’ somewhere?” 

“Out.” 

Like he needs to know my whereabouts 24/7. “Don’t tell me you’re goin’-” 

I finished tying off my hair and adjusted my bangs with one hand while cutting him off with the other, “Uh-uh- _uh_. I am in fact _telling_ you. Not asking for permission. I wanna go out, I will. End of story.” 

Frank looked very disapproving, “Two to four _months._ Not seven _weeks_.” 

I tied the bandana off and wrinkled my nose at him, “My leg. I can walk almost halfway to kind of fine. Chill.” 

He watched as I grabbed my guns and placed them in the holsters that were sewed into the inside-lining of my vest...coat...thing, then hooked my knife sheaths onto my waist like a belt, “You’re gonna get your ass kicked and hurt yourself even more.” 

I swept my bamboo into my right hand, walking towards the door -- almost tripping on a dog or two on the way, since the majority of the house lights were off and the light from the windows was dim as all hell, “I’ll be fine.” 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bekah's in pain and thinking weird things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again; sorry for disappearing. Still trapped in a Harry Potter trash pile [and also, I've been outta bubblegum for the past 3 weeks and it's upsetting my internal balance?? I lost a friggin' 1 pound bag of bubblegum somewhere in my house I just}}
> 
> So yeah... here's this... 
> 
> Sorry...

I was not fine. He was right. I got my ass kicked. _Badly._ And I wasn’t just all kicked to hell by criminals, either. The fuckin’ Devil of Hell’s Kitchen? Yeah, he decided to start gettin’ in my way, too, and he kicked me in the Goddamn knee; so now _that_ was acting up as bad as ever. 

I think the motherfucker dislocated it. 

Due to my prior injuries, I’d been gone for quite sometime and the criminals of Hell’s Kitchen believed Phantom to be good and dead, though, so _that_ little fact gave me a bit of an upper hand; they thought they were seeing a _legit_ ghost. 

But, all hands aside, it was seven dudes against one rusty-skilled ghost -- toss the Devil into that mix? The Devil who was hellbent on _protecting_ the guys I was trying to behead? Yeah. I was nice ‘n bruised ‘n busted up when I shakily flopped through the fire escape the next morning. Couple’a good cuts and scrapes here ‘n there -- stitching required, sadly -- but luckily I avoided all gunshots tonight. 

Frank wasn’t anywhere in sight when I adjusted myself and pulled myself up from the floor. I heard a _thwumph_ when I locked the front door, though, and when I turned back to face the rest of the living room? Frankie was on the couch. He gave me a quick once-over, coupled with a gentle, “Told you.” 

I scoffed at him best I could, making a face, “Ha-ha, very funny, Frankie.” 

I think he could tell I was in pain, though, because his slightly-mocking façade diminished and he stood from the couch, “Come here.” 

Was he more beat up than before? His bruises looked fresher, a couple new cuts on his face, too. And I found myself asking him, “Are you okay?” 

Y’know, instead of asking why he wanted me to go towards him. 

“'m fine. You’re not.” 

Indeed I am not. My ribs hurt, my legs hurt, my _knee_ hurt, my shoulders hurt. My hands were bleeding a little from the ripped open skin on my palms because I’m not yet used to gripping onto and swinging my staff that hard. 

I smirked softly, to myself, remembering the ghastly _crunch_ of heads when my staff made contact. Frankie was right; bamboo is tough as shit. 

Speakin’a Frankie; _he’s right in front of me_ , “Your room. Now.” 

“That’s soundin’ a bit suggestive, Frankie-boy,” I attempted a joke, some humour to lighten to mood. It hurt for me to grin and it hurt for me to exist. Why would I attempt humour when all I want to do is take a warm bath and go to sleep for four years? 

_That’s called a coma_. I reminded myself. 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he frowned at me, “Go change. I’m gonna run you a hot bath and after you’re stitched up you’re gonna go sit in the water.” 

Now I was a bit concerned, “Um…” 

His tone got a bit more… stressed, “You’re gonna go change, I’m gonna stitch you up, and you’re gonna take a relaxin’ nap in the bath.” 

Y’know… hot… _anything_ sounds kind of good right now, so I chose not to argue with my in-house, coffee-drinking couch potato. So to my room I went, and into my pink-ass booty shorts I changed -- keeping on my bloodied-up sports bra. 

“Sit,” he pointed to the couch -- _his_ couch, with his free hand. The hand that didn’t have a suddenly-acquired threaded needle in it. 

I obeyed. Like a trained _dog_. I just wasn’t in the mood to put up a fight anymore, so on the couch I sat. Frank moved to stand behind the couch, “This may smart a bit.” 

“I have no pain sensing nerves anymore, anyway,” I replied dimly, half asleep. Between the pain and the bodily exhaustion, I was less Here than I usually was. 

And so I just _barely_ felt the prick of the needle in my neck when he began stitching. Frankie didn’t say anything, apparently still sticking to the man-of-few-words thing he had goin’ on. I was totally okay with that right now, since I also was just _not_ in the mood do talk. 

Stitching went by quick. Quicker and smoother than if I’d’ve tried to do it myself. The thread snapped off, “Anything else need stitchin’?” 

I shook my head, making the ‘no.’ noise at him. 

“Bath.” 

“Help me off the couch,” I whined. I flat out _whined_ for him to pull me to my feet. What was weird, though, was he obliged, allowing me to grab his arm to pull myself up, “Thanks.” 

So, I shuffled into the bathroom, stripping on my way there, so now there was a trail of clothing down the hall. Frank had gone into the kitchen somewhere, most likely to clean the needle or something. Several pets were trailing him, too, and I swear they like him more than they like me. 

Frank stayed true to his strange word and had ran hot water in the tub for me, and really, I could _not_ have been more thankful. I slowly sank into it and fell asleep almost freaking _instantly_ \-- the bubbles were tickling my nose, though, so I didn’t doze off right away. 

I peeked open my eyes a little when there was a _clink_ right by my ear. Frank was walking outta the room by the time I registered what was going on; he’d set a mug of… something by my head. 

My first thought was ‘ew. coffee.’ but upon further inspection, I realized the angry-looking man had made me a cup of freaking hot chocolate, and it brought a small grin to my lips. Turns out Frank was nicer than he looked. 

Though I didn’t know to what extent. But _obviously_ I knew that already. Big, tough and scary on the outside. Catches runaway puppies, patches up wanted vigilantes and makes hot cocoa on the outside. 

Frankie is adorable. _God_ , I love him. 

I almost dropped my hot chocolate in the tub. 

_Did I seriously just say that?_ It was just an adoration kind of love, I think. Cuz.. Matt. Matt’s still handsome and adorable and blind as all shit. Goddamn I hate feelings. ‘least Brendon seems to’ve forgotten about Matt. 

Though, I haven’t ranted to Brendon about Matt since I got outta college. I think. Like, y’know… too many concussions can make you a little… 

Yeah….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO Frankie is getting a LOT OOC and I apologize for that


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More pain, basically. Frankie being nicer than he should be. Stress.  
> Y'know, a typical Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses for abandoning y'all for like seven years.
> 
> Life's been kicking my ass. Let's leave it at that

So, que to next morning-- 

Here, let me fill you in on the rest of yesterday; I didn’t go to work because I was in pain all over everywhere. There, now you’re all nice ‘n caught up. 

\--and I’m trying _so_ very hard to drag myself from the comfort of my bed. But alas, I need to _somehow_ get to work. I nudged Frank -- the dog-- 

Alright, let’s get this outta the way; Frank is the Rottweiler. Frank _ie_ is the human. 

I shoved Frank off my legs and swung said legs out of bed, sitting… half upright. My right hand had curled around the edge of the bed, my left elbow propped on my knee, hand rubbing the sleep from my… eyes? Face. Rubbing the sleep from my face. Frank went and let himself out of my room, and I cringed at the sound of his teeth hitting the doorknob. 

Where the hell these dogs even learn to _use_ doorknobs is beyond my knowledge. 

I followed suit, though, standing up so I could head out into the kitchen, eat said kitchen, then get dressed and head over to work. My _body_ , however, had entirely different ideas for me this morning. My right leg just freaking _buckled_ when I tried to walk to the door, and I went sprawling. 

Remember when I said the Devil kicked my leg out? 

Yeah. 

So, here I am trapped on the floor of my room. I just stretched out, laying on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to _not_ scream out in pain because God _damn_ that hurt like a motherfucker. I can’t even describe it-- when I walk it feels like molasses, but right now it feels like all my inner tendons are torn to fucking shreds. 

I hate to say it, but I feel like I need LifeAlert right now… 

And _no_. I refuse to call out for Frankie to come help me. For all I know he’s gone, anyway. Cuz, y’know, remember? He said, like, a day and a half ago that he was going to be ‘outta here by daybreak’ and all that. 

Bucky nosed open the door and trotted inside, cocking his head to the side when he saw me just… laying on the floor, staring at my grody grey ceiling. _He_ thought it was weird, and he barked -- albeit, really loudly and, like, right in my ear -- and came over to start licking my face. 

I laughed and shoved him off, “Down, Buck!” God, just cuz I’m on the floor don’t mean y’gotta start tryna lick my face off. Jeezes. He opted for nudging his wet nose at my ribs, trying to get me to stand up, “Chill, dude. Unless _you_ wanna help me get up, it’ll be a while.” 

I need to learn to watch what I say and do around these animals. Buck adopted a… _look_ in his eye, a glint that was more mischievous than usual, and then he turned and went back out, leaving me to my own devices on the floor of my room. 

There was barking out in the living room -- choroused, when the other two dogs joined in the barking, too -- and I could hear Frank talking to ‘em, “‘s the matter, boys?” more barking, some light snarling, and I immediately thought, ‘Oh _God_ , they’re going to tear into Frank.’ 

But, nope. Buck came back about… two minutes after the barking had stopped, and I heard footsteps with him, “Where are you leadin’ me?” 

Great. Bucky saw that I was struggling a bunch, and went and dragged Frank in here to help me up. 

_Welp_ this is a bit embarrassing. I pushed myself into a sitting position when the door was gently pushed open and Frank stood there, with Bucky sitting nicely at his feet, “What happened?” 

“I got kicked… in the knee… by _Satan_ … last night and…” I began shakily, looking back at him over my shoulder. The way that I’d fallen, my feet were facing my bed and so now that I was sitting up I had a nice view of, well… my bed, “And now my leg does… not work.” 

He moved farther into the room, stopping right behind me -- I _felt_ his presence back there, and it was quite terrifying. Before I could glance up at him and ask him what he was doing, he gently grabbed under my arms, and without word or warning, tugged me to my feet. 

I let out a surprised squeak in the process. I mean, he took me off guard. Frankie didn’t look like someone who _enjoyed_ kindness, or physical… anything. Just looked like he liked fighting a bulldozer a lot, so I didn’t quite expect the help. 

To be honest, though, I really should’ve. He’s been nothing but kind to me since I met him. Stopping Buck from going too AWOL, tugging me from a dumpster, forcefully being nice and making me rest. Taking me to that tiny-ass lil’ diner. He made me fuckin’ hot chocolate last night, stitched up my couple’a cuts and stuck me in the most relaxing bath I’ve ever had, like damn who the fuck was this dude. 

He was a fucking Godsend and it was awesome. 

“You alright?” his voice was _right_ next to my ear, my God. I’d zoned out again, obviously, and he apparently seemed a little concerned. 

And to be honest, I was a bit concerned, too. My eyes were swimming with black and purple dots, like when the TV loses signal. My head was throbbing with a building tension-headache, and my leg felt ice-fucking-cold, “Yeah, ‘m fine.” 

“Let’s find you your walkin’ stick,” keeping his grip on me, both hands still looped under my shoulders, he led me _backwards_ out into the rest’a my apartment. 

I couldn’t help but feel he was smirking just a tiny lil’ bit back there, at the mention of my _staff_ being a friggin’ _walking stick_ , “‘s by the door.” 

It was always by the door. I really only _needed_ it when I left, since I could manage without it when I was here. In my house. 

How the hell is he moving with me anyway? I was being basically hostage-dragged through my living room, catching the curious eye of every pet I could see at the moment. They all seemed frozen in time, and it was eery as all hell. 

One arm disappeared from holding my shoulder, and returned holding my staff in front of me, “Take it.” 

I did as I was told, and as soon as it was in my hold, Frank’s immediate presence behind me left, “Y’should keep that on you at all times.” 

I snorted dismissively at him, “I’ll have you know that I’ve been improving to the point of not needing this--” I waved it at him before setting the end back on the floor, “--twenty-four-seven. So _there_.” 

He set his jaw, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “And now that Red’s gone and kicked your knee out, you need it _twenty-four-seven_ again. Got it?” 

I did a bit of a double take, “Um…” I weighed my options; get on the bad side of this Scary Dude, or carry around a wicked bamboo staff. Given that the Scary Dude could kill me, I’ll take my chances with the stick, “Yeah… twenty-four-seven… got it…” 

_***********_

And twenty-four-seven it was. That staff never left my side-- hell, it hardly left my _grasp_. It became somewhat of a fidget-stopper for me. Between my hands being busy with the staff, tossing it back and forth, spinning it and stuff, y’know, and my jaw being busy with my bubblegum addiction -- then there was my _brain_ , busy with law-office… things…. and me overall as a person, occupied with my more frequented nightly escapades around town… 

Yeah, I was busy. 

Frankie and I, though? We’d fallen into a nice routine of him just… permanently inhabiting my couch while I flitted between work, home, and Phantom-ing. I woke up, and there he was, on the couch. Leave for work with a faint ‘bye Frankie’, and when I return, he’s still there. He helps me prepare for going out as Phantom and always patches me up when I get back from a particularly rough-ass night. 

I _had_ accidentally started telling Frank I love him, though, when I leave for work. He’s my friend -- yes, I qualify him as my friend, now -- and I enjoy his existence. Romantic or not, I love him and care for his, well… existence. 

Of course, I _did_ make sure he was alright with it, and he eventually got used to it. He never says it back, though, and I don’t expect him to. I also expected him to be gone one’a these times when I get back, either from work or… _work_. But nope. He was always there. On my couch. Even though I’ve _specifically told him_ that he can move into the guest bedroom, but he refuses. 

_Pfftt_. Men… 

(Cue the eyeroll.) 

I, sadly, allowed myself to fall into a nice, comfortable routine, and most everything in my life seemed… well, I s’pose. 

That was a bad idea. 

I should’ve _known_ that the universe was winding up to throw a knuckleball at me, since my life wasn’t as terrible as it could’ve been at the moment. Regression towards the mean, people. Plus it’s just what _always_ happens to me. My life gets nice a fairy-tale perfect and _bam!_ Brendon and I break up, or _bam!_ Matt moves onto someone else. 

Or, y’know, _BAM!_ I wake up with a Goddamn fucking _heart attack_ because I walk out into my kitchen and the TV is off and the couch is empty! 

It took me a moment to register that fact. For the past couple… weeks? months? How fucking long has is been, Jesus Christ… Anyway, for the past couple whatevers, I wake up -- or fall back through the fire escape -- and Frank is watching TV with a dog, cat, or both on his lap while a pot of black coffee brews. 

My apartment right now? Void of all fucking life -- all the animals are asleep yet -- and it’s terrifying and quiet. The silence is deafening. I can hear it even through my tinnitus and I fucking _hate it._

After a couple laps around the apartment to see if there was a note anywhere -- there wasn’t -- I stopped in the middle of the living room, hands tangled in my hair as I began hyperventilating. Panicking. _Panicking!_ I was fucking panicking, oh my _God_ what if someone got him? What if he got sick’a me and left-- well, if he did that, I’d be totally understanding about it because I’m a fucking lunatic but _what if someone got him!?_ I’ve made… so many fucking enemies over the years, _someone’s_ gotta know where I live and if they got here and saw Frankie instead’a me they might’a killed him or kidnapped him and are going to use him as a hostage to ransom for money or my identity or to kill me-- 

_Deep breaths, asshole. Deep breaths-- Oh God!_ How’d they’ve found me?! No one knows who Phantom’s actual identity is except Frank and-- 

_Matt_. 

_Oh no…_ I groaned, yanked at my hair a little and began pacing again. What if someone caught Satan? Took of _his_ mask, found out his actual identity, started interrogating him. That blind asshole can take care’a himself, but I don’t think he cares enough about my existence to keep _my_ secret… well, a secret. He’d probably give me up the first chance he gets-- 

Ugh, who’m I kidding, Matt would rather die than betray a friend. 

Am I even his friend…? 

Yeah, I think so… 

I stopped again, this time near my front door. I’ll just… I’ll just take a nice, calming, relaxing shower, go to work, ask Matt… start snooping, get some answers and shit, and come back and Frank will be back. He probably just… went back to his own apartment for some soup, or something. 

Yeah… 

Yeah, he’s fine. 

He’ll be back by the time I get back from work.


End file.
